

SUPREME COUNCIL, 33° 

A...A.-.S.-.R1 

Soulhem Jurisdiclion,U.S.A. 
Wasliington, D.C. 

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) I 




JUSTIN HAELET 



AUTHOR OP 


JOHN ESTEN COOKE, 


“ THE VIRGINIA COMEDIANS, ” 
“ DR. VANDYKE,” 


SURRY OF EAGLE’S NEST,” 
ETC. 


Lm«ARV 

OFtHE 

eUF.%COUNCIL, 
so/ JURISDICTION. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

624, 626 & 628 MAKKET STREET. 

1875. 



P^3 

CllS 

S'u. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
TO-DAY PRINTING & PUBLISHING CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 




JiUbrary of Supreme Council 
Aub AQ*2B40 


When a book is finished, and the weary hand lays down the 
pen, a writer is apt to lean back in his chair, fall into reverie, and 
ask himself what will be the probable fate- of his venture when 
launched on the often stormy ocean of letters. The moment is an 
anxious one if his temperament is timid — an interesting one, how- 
ever cool and philosophic he may be. The last page deposited on 
the pile containing so many other pages completes a task which 
has absorbed more or less of his life. And if he is a conscientious 
laborer — an architect who will not leave any portion of his build- 
ing incomplete, or filled up with rubbish — he has not shrunk from 
.this exhausting toil. Day after day and week after week — month 
after month, it may be, and even year after year, sometimes — he 
has forgotten the outer world, with all its allurements, to live in 
the world of his imagination. Time has passed for him like a 
dream, and he has seen only the figures of his Dreamland. While 
the sun has been shining, and happy idlers have been basking in 
its light and warmth, he has not seen it, or has closed his eyes to. 
it, absorbed in his ever-recurring toil* The birds have not sung 
for him, or the flowers bloomed — nor has night, even, brought him 
rest. The wind sighing around the gables has lulled others to 
healthful sleep — he has watched, and not slept, hearing the old 
clock mark the hours one by one as they passed away ; a solitary 
toiler, recording the histories of the men and women of his fancy, 
who have been to him the real men and women of his life — far 
m jre real than those of his actual acquaintance. He has seen their 
smiles or their frowns — entered into all their feelings — sympa- 
thized with their joys and sorrows, their tears and their laughter, 
until these persons of his imagination have come to be real per- 


4 


PREFACE, 


sons, nay, old friends, whom he loves and would not part with. 
But ‘the moment has come at last when he must bid them fare- 
well — when he will no longer hear their voices or see their faces 
smile on him alone. They are known only to him now : to-mor- 
row they will be known to the world — or at least to a small portion 
of it. What will that world think of them ? — that they are agree- 
able people, or dull people ? Will they make friends everywhere, 
or enemies instead? What will be their fate in the great world 
which they are about to enter ? 

An author who has labored conscientiously to produce something 
worthy to be read — which can do no harm and may do some 
good — must muse after some such fashion as this on the reception 
of his work, anticipating the probable criticisms it will arouse. 
In the case of the volume before the reader, this criticism may 
be foretold with tolerable accuracy. The incidents are singular, 
and may be styled improbable — a term which means, colloquially, 
untrue to nature — and the truth of this criticism, as applied to such 
works, is worthy of a brief examination. 

What, after all, is improbable in this world? What occurrence 
is singular? The singular is not the improbable. Men rise and 
make their toilettes, and go to their affairs, and return home to 
sleep — and this routine goes on year after year, with little or no 
interruption. But are there no other lives which are subjected 
to greater vicissitudes? Is life always commonplace, and the cur- 
rent untroubled ? Alas ! it is tragic and frightful, often ; it does 
not always flow quietly ; it is broken into foam, and rushes vio- 
lently under the influence of subterranean forces — the passions of 
wrath, hatred, the greed of gold, or of lust, or murder. You take 
up a newspaper, and there is a crime in every column; or a volume 
of memoirs, and an “ improbable” incident occurs in every chapter. 
Most men w^ho have passed forty have heard private family his- 
tories so strange and terrible that they affect the mind like a night- 
mare. And yet these crimes, “ improbabilities,” and deeds so fear- 
ful that they are only whispered under the breath, w'bre actual 


PREFACE. 


5 


occurrences, and not distortions of an unbridled fancy — as real 
events in the lives of human beings as the most commonplace in- 
cidents of every-day existence. 

The experience or the reading of every one must have proved to 
him the existence of this “night side” of human nature — this 
strange phase of life — and it is difficult to understand why a writer 
should be forbidden to delineate it. If he ventures to do so, never- 
theless, his work is styled “ sensational,” and he is ranked with 
the “exciting” school of writers. And yet no writers are more 
exciting than the great masters of the art — let us say Shakespeare 
and Scott. The one paints in Hamlet a human being warned by a 
ghost, stabbing a councillor, fighting in a grave, and killed by a 
poisoned rapier ; in Macbeth a soldier wading through blood to the 
crown promised him by witches ; while Scott shows us the Coun- 
tess of Leicester dashed to death on the stones of Cumnor, and 
Kavenswood engulphed in the treacherous quicksand, while Lucy 
Ashton crouches with the bloody knife in her hand, raving mad, 
after murdering her husband. In the dramas and romances of 
these two great masters of the art of writing, the passions of the 
human heart run riot and are drawn in vivid colors. The inci- 
dents are no less strange and tragic, too, than the* passions. That 
the passions and incidents are more violent than those of every- 
day life does not make the writings improbable, if the meaning of 
the term be untrue to nature. 

The theory of criticism here briefly urged seems to the writer to 
be based on just principles, and necessarily involves a defence of 
certain modern writers from the charge of exaggeration and un- 
naturalness in their books. This charge may be true in many in- 
stances — it is true unquestionably of many of the bad and corrupt- 
ing novels of the French “ literature of desperation ;” but it does 
not seem fair when applied to other productions of the so-called 
“ exciting ” school. 

Against the works of these writers, however, and perhaps, in 
some measure, against the volume here presented to the reader, 

1 * 


6 


PREFACE. 


may be urged a very dangerous criticism — that they depend largely 
for their interest on the element of mystery, introduced to excite 
the reader’s curiosity. This may not be a “crime,” and unfortu- 
nately the general reader seems to prefer above all things this 
gross flavor of mystery. That the proceeding, however, is a “ blun- 
der,” if the writer looks to the best audience, and to permanent 
fame, there is very little reason to doubt. From the moment when 
a drama depends for its interest solely on this “ mystery,” and the 
writer expends his force in laying a trap to catch the reader’s curi- 
osity, the true end of dramatic composition is lost sight of, and the 
book becomes ephemeral. It is read for the plot, and the plot once 
unravelled, it is thrown aside — the reader, absorbed in it but now, 
and unable to lay down the volume, wishes never to lay his eyes 
upon it again ! 

Such is the fatal mistake of those writers depending solely upon 
curiosity — the curiosity once satisfied, all interest vanishes, and the 
volume is suddenly forgotten. The fact will be acknowledged by 
every reader, and is noticed by an eminen^European critic. 

“ Whence this sudden and profound silence,” he says, “ following 
a renown mounting to the stars — this indifiference after so many 
passions ? That is easily explained. Cariosity will not suffice to make 
a work endure. It must contain, in addition, pity, love and terror, 
rising in eternal tears from the very depths of the human heart.” 

Words as true as they, are eloquent ! The book depending for its 
interest on the curiosity alone of the reader, is destined to a brief 
career ; no one re-reads it, and it is speedily forgotten. Love, pity 
and terror are necessary to the drama that is to last — for they come 
from the heart of the writer and speak to the heart of the reader. 
They entered into the dramas of a few Greek writers more than 
two thousand years ago ; and these dramas still live and move the 
world, while the “ mystery” novel of the last month is already 
forgotten. 

Virginia, 1874. 



CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Death of Me. George Hartright 13 

CHAPTER II. 

Keeping an Appointment 16 

CHAPTER III. 

The Key 21 

CHAPTER IV. 

What some Persons were saying of Justin Harley 22 

CHAPTER V. 

Drainage 27 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Opening of the Will 30 

CHAPTER VII. 

At the Ford of the Blackwater 34 

CHAPTER VIII. 

In the Water 36 

CHAPTER IX. ' 

Colonel Hartright Explodes 39 

CHAPTER X. 

The Visit 42 



8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

St. Leger 47 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Night Hunt 52 

CHAPTER XHI. 

At Blandfield 57 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Queer Adventure 62 

CHAPTER XV. 

The Key Again 66 

CHAPTER XVI. 

At the End op a Month 70 

CHAPTER XVII. 

What the Key Opened 73 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

What Mr. Jim Hanks was Prepared to Swear to 76 

41 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Cross-Examination 81 

CHAPTER XX._ 

The Vagrants 85 

CHAPTER XXI. 

PUCCOON AND THE MaN OF THE SwAMP .. 89 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Woman 92 

CHAPTER XXHI. 

Harley’s Ride in the Storm 95 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

In the Swamp 98 

CHAPTER XXV. 

XT NDER Ground loi 


CONTENTS, 


9 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ A. C.” 104 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Fanny 107 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Sainty Harley 110 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A Night Ride 114 

CHAPTER XXX. 

What was Taking Place in Judge Bland’s Study 120 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Views of Miss Clementina 124 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

In Mrs. Bland’s Chamber 127 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Law op Divorce 130 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A Man with a Lantern 135 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

Only Twenty-Eight 141 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The Unforeseen 144 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

St. Leger Comes to the Conclusion that he is Crazy 148 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

El Dorado 153 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


Under the Moon 


156 


10 ' 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XL. 

A Drawing-Room Poisoner 160 

CHAPTER XLI. 

The Thunderbolt 165 

CHAPTER XLTI. 

Sainty Harley Breaks the Ice, 172 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

Disinherited 176 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

Mr. Hicks Shows his Teeth 180 

CHAPTER XLV. 

Apoplexy 184 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

St. George Discourses on Locked Doors and Rosebuds. - 186 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

Business 192 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

What Harley Found 197 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

PuccooN IS Lost 201 

•CHAPTER L. 

The Lady op the Snow 204 

CHAPTER LI. 

Hiding 207 

CHAPTER LII. 

Harley "AND Puccoon in the Hut 210 

CHAPTER LIII. 

The Second Attack 215 

CHAPTER LIV. 

The Result of Riding an Unbroken Colt 318 


CONTENTS. 


11 


CHAPTER LV. 

A Confession 221 

CHAPTER LVI. 

Through the Snow 225 

CHAPTER LVII. 

Two Fathers 228 

CHAPTER LVHI. 

St. Leger Receives his Orders 233 

CHAPTER LIX. 

Cross-Purposes 237 

CHAPTER LX. 

The Recognition 244 

CHAPTER LXI. 

Harley’s “ Little Sister ” 249 

CHAPTER LXII. 

Face to Face 251 

CHAPTER LXHI. 

Augusta Chandos 254 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

An Experience 258 

CHAPTER LXV. 

The End of a Love Affair .* 261 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

The Burglary 265 

CHAPTER LXVH. 

Harley Ends his Narrative 268 

CHAPTER LXVHI. 

“ To THE Lady who Fainted.” 274 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

Re-Appearance of the Bird of Ill-Omen 277 


12 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER LXX. 

“Oh! Justin! Justin!” 281 

. CHAPTER LXXI. 

The Last Greeting 283 

CHAPTER LXXII. 

What a Lady is Capable op when Aroused 286 

CHAPTER LXXIH. 

Evelyn Bland 292 

CHAPTER LXXIV. 

St. Leger Departs 297 

CHAPTER LXXV. 

Epilogue 299 



4 



Justin Harley. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DEATH OF MR. GEORGE HARTRIGHT. 

Colonel Joshua Hartright, tall, portly, about sixty, wearing the 
dress of a Virginia planter, came hastily, one autumn morning, 
into the drawing-room of his house at “ Oakhill,” on the south side 
of James River, and limping along with the assistance of his gold- 
headed cane, went into one of the windows and looked out upon 
the landscape. 

Any person who had glanced at him would have seen that his 
-eyes were a little moist and swollen, by suppressed tears, apparently'. 
You would not have charged him easily, however, with sentiment 
or impressibility of any kind, unless with a tendency to irascibility 
and quick displeasure. A cold man, and yet ready to “ fire up a 
little consequential and arrogant ; haughty to a (Certain extent ; not 
an amiable or “winning” person, and yet with noble qualities. 
That moisture in the eyes was plainly unwonted, and the troubled 
gaze unusual. 

Colonel Hartright was looking out of the window,— and the pros- 
pect was a superb one of far-reaching low grounds, covered with a 
waving field of corn, in ripe tassel and full ear,— when a horseman, 
in plain black, with a pair of physician’s saddle-bags behind his 
saddle, rode up the hill, dismounted, entered, and approached 
Colonel Hartright. The latter turned slowly from the window, 
made the new comer a stifi* bow, and begged him to be seated. 

The physician took the profiered seat, and said 

“Well, Colonel, how is Mr. Hartright?” 

“ He is dead !” was the reply, in a low, rather husky voice. 

• “Dead!” 

“ He died half an hour since.” 

The physician knit his brows. 

“ Is it possible? His case did not seem so critical. But, after all, 
it is a terrible complaint — disease of the heart.” 

■“Yes.” 


2 


13 



14 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Colonel Hartright sat down after uttering this one word, and 
looked at the carpet, with an expression of very deep gloom. 

“ Doctor,” he said at length, “ I beg you will take charge of 
the arrangements for my brother’s funeral. I must make a journey 
— and to-day.” 

“ A journey ?” 

Colonel Hartright nodded, but declined further explanation, 
except that he added, after a pause, 

“ A journey made necessary by the dying words of my brother. 
I cannot neglect his last injunction. We have lived together for 
about fifty years ; he was my sole blood relative, nearly, and has 
now left me. His last wishes are commands. I must set out 
to-day, but will return to-morrow. Let the funeral take place in 
the evening, and at the family burying-ground here. I shall be 
present.” 

•The emotion of the speaker as he uttered these words was great, 
in spite of his attempt to suppress it. The short sentences came 
one by one, as though forced out by an efibrt. 

The physician made no further inquiry, respecting the evident 
desire of his host to avoid an explanation of his journey. 

“ Give yourself no uneasiness about the arrangements, my dear 
sir,” he said. “ I will attend to everything.” 

Colonel Hartright bowed his thanks, and said in a low voice, as 
he rose, 

“ I will go with you to my brother.” 

Passing through the large hall toward the staircase, he made a 
sign with his hand to an old, gray-haired negro servant, who was 
wafting respectfully at the door of the’ dining-room, opposite that 
of the drawing-room. 

“ Order AVilliaDa to have the coach at the door in half-an-hour.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Colonel Hartright went through the broad hall toward a stair- 
ease, which wound up to a second hall above, upon which opened 
the doors of the numerous chambers. His step was slow and 
labored as he ascended, striking the heavy oak as he did so, step by 
step, with his gold-headed cane. The physician followed. They 
entered one of the upper apartments, furnished in heavy and elab- 
orate oak * and here, on the great bed, lay the body of a gentleman 
of about sixty -five, the face smiling even in death. 

Colonel Hartright extended his hand slowly toward the body, 
but seemed unable to speak. The physician’s eye passed from the 
face to one of the arms which lay outside the cover. The cold 
hand grasped a small key. 

“ What key is this ?” said the Doctor. 



WHAT KEY IS THIS ?” SAID THE DOCTOR.— P. 14. 






» I* 






>. 


^4 







JUSTIN HARLEY, 


15 


“A key!” said Colonel Hartright, trying to speak calmly. 

“ In the hand — the key apparently of a secretary.” 

“ I had not observed it.” 

The Doctor quietly took up the key from the cold fingers which 
clutched it stifily, and presented it to Colonel Hartright. 

“ It may be the key of a drawer or chest containing Mr. Hart- 
right’s will or other papers.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And now, my dear sir, let us retire. Give yourself no uneasi- 
ness about the arrangements. They shall be attended to immedi- 
ately, and the funeral will take place as you desire — to-morrow, at 
the spot mentioned.” 

“ Thank you, sir.” 

It was an efibrt with Colonel Hartright to utter these words. . 
He cleared his throat as he spoke. Then he silently followed the 
physician out of the chamber and went to his own. 

Half-an-hour afterwards Colonel Hartright came down, and went 
toward his coach, which stood in front of the wide portico. It was 
a large vehicle, with a roomy interior, silk cushions and curtains, 
and drawn by four glossy horses champing their bits. 

The coachman, perched on his elevated seat, looked with respect- 
ful inquiry at his master as he got into the coach. 

“ To Williamsburg,” said Colonel Hartright. “ Lose no time.” 




CHAPTER II. 

KEEPING AN APPOINTMENT. 

At a little past eleven o’clock on the same night, the city of 
Williamsburg seemed definitely to have closed the labors of another 
day and retired to rest. The streets were deserted ; the windows 
of the houses were closed ; the lights were extinguished ; and a 
breeze from the river wandered over the roof-tops like some in- 
visible spirit of the autumn night. 

There was a single exception to this lifeless appearance of the 
good borough — a light, which burned steadily in an upper apart- 
ment of the old RaUigh tavern, at that epoch the most famous of 
Virginia hostelries. This light resembled a watcher’s — some stu- 
dent was poring over his books, or somebody was dead, or some 
one was waited for. 

About half-past eleven, the silence of Duke of Gloucester street, 
the main thoroughfare of the place, was broken by the foot-falls of 
a horse, coming on at a steady walk. The sound approached, and 
horse and rider reached the tavern, when the horseman, a tall 
person, in a dark suit and riding boots, dismounted. A knock at 
the door summoned a sleepy servant. 

“ Is Mr. Hartright at this tavern ?” said the stranger. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Take my horse. I will spend the night. See that a chamber is 
ready for me in an hour.” 

The servant, wide awake now under the influence of the grave 
voice, hastened to call the groom, and then the landlord, who re- 
ceived his guest with many bows, after the fashion of Bonifaces. 
His honor would have an apartment? And some supper? The 
very best chamber ; and, as to supper, he could give him the very 
best . 

“No supper — only a chamber,” said the stranger. “ Mr. Hartright 
is here, and expects me. Announce me. My name is Harley.” 

The host bowed low, and went up the narrow staircase. After an 
absence of a few minutes he returned, and informed his guest that 
Mr. Hartright was waiting for him. 

16 



JUSTIN HARLEY, 


17 


The stranger nodded, and taking a timepiece from his breast, 
looked at it. The time was three-quarters past eleven. 

“Both are punctual,” he muttered. “Fifteen minutes gained 
between Vienna and Williamsburg. It is not too much.” 

^He knocked at the door pointed out by the host, who preceded 
him, carrying a light, and hearing “Come in !” entered. At a step 
beyond the threshold, however, he stopped, looking at the person 
who awaited him — Colonel Joshua Hartright. The latter was stand- 
ing, cane in hand, beside a table, on which burned ,a light. His 
portly figure, clad in a rich black suit, with an embroidered waist- 
coat and profuse ruffles on his breast, threw the plain apartment 
quite into the background; and with erect, powdered head, he 
looked at the visitor, his expression gloomy, and not very amicable. 

He was evidently measuring the appearance of the new comer 
with curiosity. What he saw was a m^n of about thirty, tall, evi- 
dently of great physical strength, and dressed in a somewhat foreign 
fashion — more Continental, indeed, than English. The hair, pushed 
back from the temples, showed a broad and commanding forehead ; 
the eyes were dark brown ; and the straight nose, thin lips, and 
prominent chin conveyed the impression of a person of strong 
will. The expression of eyes and lips was melancholy. The look 
of the new comer was otherwise calm and steady — an immovable 
look. When he came into the room, he walked with his head and 
shoulders thrown back, his gaze fixed, his feet planting themselves 
firmly at each step. The large stature and deliberate look and 
movements of the stranger conveyed, above all else, the impression 
of firmness and force ; but as marked a fact was his deep melan- 
choly. 

He had stopped at the threshold of the room, evidently surprised. 
He advanced at once, however, and said : 

“ I expected to meet my uncle George to-night, sir. Is he un- ' 
well ?” 

“ He is dead?” said Colonel Hartright, coldly. 

“Dead!” 

The word was uttered in a deep, shocked tone — forced from the 
speaker’s lips, you would have said. 

“ He died this morning, suddenly, of heart disease.” 

The visitor sat down, and Colonel Hartright resumed his own 
seat. For some time there was perfect silence in the room. 

“So he is dead!” said the stranger, looking at the floor. “I am 
more than ever alone.” 

“ You will probably gain by his death.” 

The stranger raised his head, fixing his steady eyes on the speaker. 

“Gain!” he said. 


2 * 


18 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“My brother has probably made you his heir — I say probably; 
I have not seen his will, and know nothing, but ” 

The stranger seemed not to hear the speaker. 

“Dead? Is it possible?” he muttered. 

“ Glenvale is an estate of great value.” « 

The younger man made a slight movement with his hand, and 
said : 

“ Let us leave this for another time, I beg, sir. I am thinking 
now, and can think only of my uncle who loved me. He was nearly 
the only human being who did — and my own love for him was 
great.” 

Colonel Hartright bowed his head in cold assent. 

“ His last words indicated that he was thinking of you.” 

The stranger inclined his head in turn. 

“ That is natural. He had made an appointment with me to 
meet him at this tavern at this hour, to-night, and doubtless recalled 
it as he was dying.” 

“ An appointment ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What was the object of the appointment? I am commissioned 
to meet you, and may take my brother’s place.” 

The stranger shook his head. 

“ The object of the appointment is wholly unknown to me. My 
uncle wrote to me two months since, through my bankers at Liver- 
pool. I was then at Vienna, where his letter reached me, and have 
come to ascertain what you desire me to explain — the object of this 
summons.” 

“ You have travelled far upon a slight invitation.” 

“ It was not a slight one in my own eyes. It was the utterance 
of a wish by one whose wishes were commands with me. I received 
the letter, set out travelling post on the next day, took ship in 
England, landed at Yorktown in a skiff before the vessel cast 
anchor, mounted, and rode hither. I wished to comply with my 
uncle’s wish — not to disappoint him.” 

“ You have used diligence,” said Colonel Hartright, stiffly. “ My 
brother, then, did not explain his object in making this appoint- 
ment?” 

“ He did not. I will read a portion of his letter.” 

The stranger took from his breast-pocket a Spanish leather case, 
drew from it a letter covered with foreign postmarks, unfolded it, 
and said : 

“ Here is the passage.” He then read : — 

“ You must be tired of Europe, Justin, and I have something to 
tell you which you would give all you possess in the world to know. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


19 


This something I shall not write; it is possible you might not 
come then, and I long to see my boy again. No, you must come. 
I will await you at the Raleigh tavern, in Williamsburg, on the 
10th September, between eleven and twelve. You will see my 
light burning as you enter Gloucester street. Come ! I have some- 
thing strange to tell you. Did I say that you would give all you 
possess in the world to know it? You would give more 

The stranger folded up the letter, and returned the case to his 
pocket. 

“ A peculiar letter, you perceive, sir. My uncle, however, was a 
peculiar person. He was called erratic by some. I confess I 
could only see his heart, which never wandered from me, at 
least.” 

At these grave words Colonel Hartright bowed his head, with a 
little less coolness than usual. 

“ Truly, a peculiar letter, and a peculiar appointment — something 
you would give more than all you possess to know ! Hum ! That’s a 
mysterious phrase.” 

“ It is incomprehensible, and yet, as you keep my uncle George’s 
appointment with me, are you not able to enlighten me ?” 

“ Wholly unable ; my brother explained nothing.” 

“ And yet you are here, sir.” 

“ By his wish, and solely to repeat to you his last words. I shall 
proceed to repeat the words, or message, which I refer to. You 
must possess more penetration than I am endowed with to under- 
stand it, as it is as singular and undecipherable as the terms of his 
letter. My brother fell a victim to a sudden and unexpected attack 
of disease of the heart, to which he was subject. He spoke little, 
as his sufferings were great. When he realized that he was dying, 
he motioned to me to come close to him. I did so, and he then in- 
formed me that you would be here to-night to keep an appointment 
with him. He could count on you, and you -would count on him, 
he said,'; but he was dying — I must come in his place.” 

The stranger listened intently. 

“My brother,!’ continued Colonel Hartright, “did not live to 
inform me of the object of this meeting; he was seized with a 
paroxysm which immediately preceded his death. I heard but 
few words uttered by him, and will repeat what I heard, as they 
evidently concern you. ‘Tell him,’ he said, ‘ that I always loved 
him ; he need exile himself no longer ; he will find — in the Black- 

water Swamp ’ My brother expired before finishing the 

sentence.” 

Colonel Hartright controlled his voice by an effort. 

“ That was the message,” he said ; “ that you would find — some- 


20 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


thing — ‘in the Blackwater Swamp^— the name, I believe, of the large 
tract on your estate.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What was my brother’s meaning?” 

“A useless inquiry, I fancy. He can have had no meaning. He 
was delirous.” 

“ I do not think so. His mind seemed perfectly clear.” 

“Then, sir, his secret, if there be a secret, has died with him. 
What I am to find in the Blackwater Swamp, I cannot divine; but 
I will try to discover my uncle’s meaning, if he had a meaning.” 

“You will then remain in Virginia? It is a subject upon which 
we have had a difference of opinion, but you are past the age when 
others have the right to interfere with a gentleman’s preferences.” 

“ Unfortunately.” 

“ My question, probably, is regarded by you as an intrusion,” said 
Colonel Hartright, stiffly. 

“Your question, sir?” 

“In reference to your future movements — whether you will 
remain in Virginia or return to Europe?” 

“ I shall return to Europe.” 

“As you will, sir !■” 

'The stranger inclined his head. 

“I prefer travelling,” he said, “but rejoice that I have come in 
time to see my uncle’s face once more. The blow is heavy. It has 
moved me more than I show, perhaps. The funeral will take 
place? ” 

The firm voice shook a little. 

“ I must see him again,” he added. 

“ You may do' so,” said Colonel Hartright, rising. “ I shall set 
out on my return at an early hour. Your horses are doubtless not 
here : accept a seat in my coach.” 

“ With thanks, sir ; and now I will no longer detain you.” 

The stranger rose, made the elder a bow, and went to his cham- 
ber. 




CHAPTER III. 

THE KEY. 

“ In this world,” says a very profound thinker, “ there are no 
‘great’ or ‘small’ events. The smallest in appearance are often the 
most important.” 

Colonel Hartright, on the departure of his guest, sat down, leaned 
his elbow on the table, reflected for half-an-hour, knitting his brows 
as he did so, and then, with a heavy sigh, for he had been think- 
ing of his dead brother, prepared to retire. 

He looked at the plain tavern-bed with an expression of marked 
distaste ; but there was plainly no choice in the matter. He was 
weary with his long ride and from the exhausting emotions of the 
day, and proceeded to take off his clothes — in a deliberate and dig- 
nifled way, as became a personage who never forgot that he was a 
great landed proprietor. His coat was placed on the back of a 
chair; his voluminous neckcloth was deposited upon the pine table, 
above which was a cracked mirror ; and then Colonel Hartright 
removed his long waistcoat, over which wandered a complicated 
figure worked in gold thread. 

As he placed the waistcoat upon the chair beside the coat, a slight 
tinkling noise was heard — or rather was not heard. It was the key 
taken from the hand of his dead brother by the old physician, and 
delivered to him at Oakhill, on that morning. Colonel Hartright 
had been scarcely conscious, in the midst of his distress, of having 
received it ; had placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat, and now, 
in depositing that garment upon the chair, had done so in such a 
manner that the pocket was turned downward, from which it re- 
sulted that the key slipped over the silken lining, fell out upon the 
drugget-carpet beneath the chair, and, in falling, made so slight a 
noise that it did not attract Colonel Hartright’s attention. That 
gentleman then extinguished his light, and was soon afterward 
asleep. 

. On the next morning the landlord of the Raleigh provided his 
guests with an early breakfast; the coach rolled to the door; and 
just as the sun was rising, the two gentlemen got into the vehicle 
and set out for Oakhill, conversing gravely as they went along. 

The key lay under the chair where it had fallen, half-concealed 
in a fold of the drugget. 


21 




CHAPTER IV. 

WHAT SOME PERSONS WERE SAYING OF JUSTIN HARLEY. 

A FEW days after these scenes, Justin Harley was seated one 
morning in the large drawing-room of his house, called “ Hunts- 
don,” evidently quite absorbed in thought. 

Huntsdon was one of those houses whose singular physiognomy 
attracts attention. It was a huge pile of age-embrowned brick, 
with broad wings, a portico in front of the central building, and had 
about it a large and stately look, best expressed by the word im- 
posing. The grounds were extensive, and dotted with old oaks. 
One of these stood on each side brushing the walls, and from the 
lofty hill Huntsdon looked down upon a great expanse of country, 
once nearly all in possession of the Harley family. The first of the 
name in Virginia had been poor, but his successors had become 
rich — the estates embracing about fifty thousand acres. Profuse 
living had undermined this landed wealth. The Harley of this 
story inheriting, as eldest son, the whole, found himself lord of 
only three or four thousand acres, a disproportionately large number 
of servants — who devoured everything — and an addition of about 
five thousand acres of swamp-land, overgrown with laurel, juniper 
and cypress, on the Blackwater river — a tract which the owl, the 
whip-poor-will, and the moccasin were more the owners of than he. 

Huntsdon had been long shut up. The younger brother of Justin 
Harley was at Eton, in England, and he himself had been abroad 
for many years. He had come back a stranger nearly to everybody, 
had seen but few persons whom he knew at his uncle’s funeral, 
and was now seated in the solemn-looking drawing-room of 
Huntsdon, with its antique furniture and shadowy portraits, look- 
ing upon him with an unresting stare, waiting for the old steward, 
or overseer, who had managed his estate in his absence. 

The scenes and events of this day went far to shape the lives of 
several personages of this history. We shall, therefore, leave 
Huntsdon and its master for the moment, and listen to the conver- 
sation of two persons who were at this moment speaking of Justin 
Harley. 


22 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


23 


“Blandfield,” some miles distant, was the residence of Judge 
Bland, a member of the governor’s council, and was as bright and 
cheerful as Huntsdon was sombre. There was a time when the sun 
never shone on a fairer land than Virginia, and Blandfield was one 
of its most cheerful spots. The homestead stood a mile or two from 
the James, amid fertile fields, and was approached from the wharf 
running out into the stream by a winding road, the fence on either 
side overgrown with the foliage and trumpet-like fiowers of the 
Virginia creeper. A tall white gate gave entrance into extensive 
grounds, studded with very large oaks, broad-bough ed and heavy 
with foliage ; a little brook went laughing under weeping willows, 
through a deep-green meadow, and between a double row of elms 
skirting the avenue the visitor reached the house. 

It was a quiet, homelike old place. At each end rose a slender 
Lombardy poplar, shooting its pointed summit into the blue sky ; 
and masses of old lilacs leaned their delicate purple blossoms, in 
the spring, against the. walls. In front of the portico was a circle of 
the greenest sward, with a gnarled “rustic seat” in the centre, lean- 
ing its lattice-work back against a tree, and other rustic seats were 
scattered over the lawn, beneath the oaks. The house stood on a 
gentle knoll, and a path led down the hill, on the right, toward the 
garden, over whose white palings you caught a glimpse of some 
dazzling autumn-blooms. Half lost in foliage, toward the rear, were 
the outbuildings, the overseer’s house in the distance in its apple- 
orchard, and the great barns and stables. In front, far away across 
the smiling fields, shone the silver current of the James, dotted 
here and there with snowy sails, ascending, or borne on by gentle 
winds toward the ocean. 

Judge Bland, the master of this peaceful mansion, was a slender 
old gentleman of about sixty, with long, gray hair, and an exquisite 
suavity of bearing ; a man of great social distinction, and beloved 
by everybody. Besides himself, the household at Blandfield con- 
sisted of his aged mother, who was a perfect chronicle in hepelf of 
every Virginia family; Miss Clementina Bland, a maiden sister of 
the judge ; Miss Evelyn and Miss Annie Bland. ^ 

A few strokes of the pen will make the portraits of these ladies. 

Miss Clementina waS thirty -five, and never intended to be mar- 
ried. She had deliberately chosen not to accept som.e of the best 
offers in Virginia, and although theoretically regarding matrimony 
as the greatest blunder that a woman could commit, took an 
interest in all the “ love-aflairs ” of the neighborhood — and also 
in its gossip. 

A very few words in reference to Annie Bland will bring us to 
Miss Bland, whose first name was Evelyn. Annie was a little romp 


24 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


of sixteen, with a profusion of black curls, pouting lips — always 
smiling — and very rosy cheeks. Annie was called a “ tomboy ” by 
some people — she was so very careless, laughing, and independent. 
She would cheerfully have “gone barefooted” if it had been deco- 
rous; delighted in climbing trees for birds’-nests; and nothing 
pleased her more, when no one was looking, than wading in the run. 

Let us pass to Evelyn — Miss Bland. 

Evelyn was a young lady of about nineteen; quite tall, — some 
persons said too tall — slender, with a dazzling complexion, eyes of 
that violet tint produced by the reflection of purple upon deep blue; 
and from her childhood had been remarkable for the grace of her 
movements. The feet of the baby seemed to trip like a fairy’s ; the 
little head assumed natural attitudes, the perfection of grace ; and 
as the baby became a girl and the girl a young lady, this exquisite 
gracefulness of movement grew. In character the girl was a creature 
of impulse, passing from one mood to another with astonishing 
facility ; now singing like a lark, then sitting with her head droop- 
ing, overcome by sadness, but oftenest gay, daring, satirical, domi- 
neering, and born into the world, it seemed, with the one great 
mission of driving the young gallants around her to distraction. 
They were afraid of her a little, but her beauty enthralled them. 
Evelyn amused herself at their expense, but they quite forgot their 
grievances when, seated at the harpsichord, she inclined her beauti- 
ful head, with its rich brown curls, toward one shoulder, gazed at 
the hapless youth or youths from the corners of her eyes, and elec- 
trified them by the smile which gave point to the tender words of 
her song. 

On this morning, as the sun soared above the woods, turning the 
dew-drops to gold, Evelyn Bland came out of the front door, and 
seeing her father reading his Virginia Gazette, on one of the rustic 
seats on the lawn, ran to him and sat down beside him. 

Well, here is my little sunshine, all lilies and roses !” said the 
judge, smiling and kissing her. “And what does your ladyship 
propose to do to-day?” 

“I propose to ride out with my papa, if he is going anywhere.” 

“ I am going to see Mr. Randolph, and you shall go with me. You 
have scarce left the house since going to Mr. Hartright’s funeral.” 

“An age! — poor Mr. Hartright!” 

“He was an excellent gentleman, and ’tis a pity he remained un- 
married, and had no children to cheer his old age. He had nephews, 
however Justin and St. George Harley. Justin has returned, it is 
said.” 

“ I do not remember him,” said Evelyn. “ He has been very long 
abroad, has he not, papa? Why did he go?” 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


25 


“ I really do not know ; a love-disappointment, or something — it 
was his secret. He was an admirable young man, open and gene- 
rous as the day ; but it is said he became soured all at once — grew 
extremely bitter in his comments upon human nature, — especially 
upon women — and shut himself up at that dreary old place, Hunts- 
don, like a hermit.” 

Evelyn listened to these details with all the avidity of a young 
lady startled in the midst of domestic common-place by a romantic 
incident. 

“A hermit! — "we have a hermit in the neighborhood! — a young, 
and fine-lo(fking one, I hope !” 

“ Justin was certainly a fine-looking young man at twenty, my 
dear,” her father said, smiling, “ but ten years change people very 
much.” 

“ To say nothing of being crossed in love !” 

“I do not know that he was ever crossed in love, you romantic 
young witch, and if he had been, the fact would scarcely explain 
some other singular reports of the young man’s habits.” 

“ What reports, papa ?” 

“ I find I am becoming quite an aged gossip, and repeating every 
absurd rumor ; but it is said that young Harley would never sleep 
without a light in his chamber.” 

“ Why, what on earth !” 

“ See ! I have excited your curiosity, and have no means of grati- 
fying it, my child. I can only say that the report was very generally 
believed at the time of his departure for Europe, that he had a 
strange antipathy to darkness. I have a vague recollection of having 
heard that on one occasion his light was accidentally extinguished, 
and that a chance guest was aroused by the young man’s bursting 
open his door and calling, with great agitation, for his servant to 
re-light the appartment.” 

“ How very odd ! And you never spoke of this, papa.” 

“ It was a long time since, when you were very young, and I 
never saw young Harley, nor did anybody. He soon afterwards 
went to Europe, and you know we have lost sight of him.” 

“ I have rarely heard his name mentioned.” 

“ Well, everybody seemed to forget him ; and I must plead guilty 
myself of having done so too, although his father was one of my 
best friends. The family is an old and respectable one, and the 
young man is now the head of it.” 

Evelyn looked thoughtfully at the sward, which she patted wdth 
her small foot. 

“And so the mysterious Mr. Justin Harley has come back? 
What brought him ?” 


3 


26 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ His uncle’s death, I should say, if there had been time for the 
intelligence to reach him.” 

“ Yes, certainly ; but how singular all this is. Think, papa, that 
light in his room I What can it mean ?” 

The judge shook his head. 

“ These personal peculiarities are often inexplicable. I should, 
perhaps, have refrained from speaking of this, and of the young 
man’s hermit-like life.” 

“ Oh no ! There can be no harm in that — certainly with refer- 
ence to myself, papa ! Should Mr. Harley desire to make my ac- 
quaintance, I should certainly decline that honor. But we shall 
not probably see him.” 

“ I confess I should like to. But there is the breakfast-bell. After 
breakfast we will ride, my child. Your company will be charming.” 

You dear old papa ! As if I did not know you were delighted !” 

And, taking her father’s arm. Miss Evelyn raised her pink skirt 
daintily, tipped on her small feet, in their slippers and white stock- 
ings, over the dewy grass, and they entered the house. 

An hour afterwards father and daughter mounted on horseback, 
and set out to visit Mr. Randolph, who lived on the opposite side 
of the Blackwater. 




CHAPTER V. 

DRAINAGE. 

Harley was leaning back in his arm-chair when steps were heard 
in the hall without, and these steps approached and stopped at the 
door of the room. 

“ Come in, Saunders, my good old friend,” said Harley, as the 
door opened, and, rising, he cordially grasped the hand of the new- 
comer — a gray-haired old man, in plain clothes, with a face full of 
honesty and good-feeling. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Justin — welcome back,” said old Saunders, 
warmly; “you’ve been gone this many a year, Mr. Justin!” 

“ Too long for the good of the land, Saunders ; but sit down, my 
friend— I wish to talk with you about a great many things.” 

Saunders sat down, depositing his broad-brimmed hat upon the 
floor, and wiping his forehead. Harley then proceeded to ask 
him a multitude of questions in reference to the estate, the health 
of the servants, and “business” generally. The replies of the old 
manager — who had served the father first, and now served the 
son — were not very encouraging. 

“And so the estate is seriously embarrassed,” said Harley, coolly. 

Saunders uttered a sort of sigh, and said : 

“Things are going bad, Mr. Justin, and.if you’ll let me say it, you 
have spent a load of money in furrin parts, Mr. Justin.” 

“True — I should have stayed at home. The estate is a fine one, 
but money melts in travelling. I have sent home bills of exchange 
from every capital in Europe for you to pay, my good friend ; and 
such a system is dangerous, Saunders.” 

“ Dang’rous is the very word, Mr. Justin !” 

“ The last amount sent — that was raised on mortgage, as I directed 
from Munich?’ 

“Yes, Mr. Justin. Hicks lent it — the tobacco failed, you know.” 

“Yes — well. We owe now more than five thousands pounds, do 
we not?” 

“Five thousand one hundred and thirty-three pounds eleven 
shillings and sixpence, with the interest from ” 



28 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Well, I will look at the papers; bring them here to-morrow, my 
old friend. I have no doubt all is set down, and I doubt if you 
have paid yourself what is due you. What presses now is to fix 
upon some means of relieving the estate. You know my great 
object — to transmit it to my dear Sainty free from debt.” 

“Mr. Justin,” said the old man. 

“Well, Saunders?” 

“Why not marry, yourself? There’s enough for Mr. Sainty and 
— your children.” 

“ I have no intention of marrying,” said Harley, coolly, “ not the 
least in the world; and now let us come back to the subject. I have 
thought of a means of paying this money we owe, and doubling 
the value of the property.” 

Saunders raised his head with extreme animation. 

“What way, Mr. Justin? They do say, in the old country,” 
^Saunders meant England,) “they are making bad land rich by new 
sorts of manures.” 

“And drainage.” 

“Drainage, Mr. Justin?” 

“Thousands of acres, especially in Lincolnshire, are annually 
brought under cultivation and grow rich crops — land that before 
was mere marsh, and worthless.” 

“ But, Mr. Justin ” 

“ Let me finish, as I must ride in half-an-hour, Saunders. How 
many acres in my tract, the Blackwater Swamp ?” 

“By survey, five thousand seven hundred and thirteen and 
three-quarter acres, Mr. Justin.” 

“ So that, if we could bring this tract under cultivation, and clear 
one pound sterling an acre the first year, the debt of five thousand 
pounds would be paid ?” 

“But, Mr. Justin ” 

“The land is rich, is it not?’, 

“Where it’s out of water it will bring anything — ^black loam,” 
said Saunders. 

“I think I will drain it.” 

At this statement, Saunders gazed with astonishment at the 
speaker, and then shook his head. 

“ It can’t be done, Mr. Justin. It would take ten fortunes. It will 
come to nothing.” 

“ My uncle George was a prudent man, Saunders.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, he was in favor of the scheme.” 

“Your uncle George Hartright?” 

“Yes.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


29 


“Why, Mr. Justin! the very word drainage sickened Mr. Hart- 
right after he tried the Glen vale meadows ; and he told me only 
one month ago that he would not give a shilling for the whole 
Blackwater tract.” 

“ He told you that?” 

“ He did indeed, Mr. Justin !” 

This statement seemed to puzzle Harley immensly. He rose, 
walked up and down, and then came back to his seat. 

“ Very well, my good Saunders,” he said. “This is a matter we 
will talk about in future. I will think of it and decide what we will 
do. I have an engagement with Colonel Hartright this morning. 
My uncle’s will is to be opened to-day.” 

Saunders had taken his broad-brimmed hat from the floor, and 
now stood up. 

“ I hope you are pleased with the look of things, Mr. Justin,” he 
said. “ I had the house opened from top to bottom and aired, 
after you rode out, when you first came ?” 

“Thank you, Saunders. I find everything in excellent order.” 

“The pink room was not opened. No key could be found, and 
the shutters ” 

Harley turned his head quickly, and looked straight at the 
speaker. 

“ It may remain shut up — I do not require it,” he said. 

“The largest chamber in the house, Mr. Justin, and the finest — 
on the first floor, too.” 

Harley made a motion with his hand. 

“ I prefer a smaller one,” he said. “ Oblige me, as you go out, 
by ordering my horse.” 

“Yes, Mr. Justin.” 

Saunders went out, wondering a little at the sudden change in 
the voice of Harley, and his strange look. He had taken but a 
few steps, when the hand of the younger man was laid upon his 
shoulder. 

“ I have not said — ^and yet I should have said — that I am more 
than satisfied, my old friend, with your management of my afiairs. 
I knew that you were intelligent and faithful. I have no other 
friend like yourself. Thanks I And now time presses. Will you 
order Ajax to be saddled and brought round at once ?” 



3 * 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE OPENING OP THE WILL. 

An hour after the conversation with Saunders, Harley came in 
sight of Oakhill. 

He had been reflecting, as he rode along slowly, upon the eccen- 
tric words of his uncle as he was dying. What possible meaning 
could be attached to the summons he had received, and to those 
last words? He, Justin Harley, would give all he possessed to know 
something connected with the Blackwater Swamp ! 

AVhat was that something? That his uncle had meant to convey 
to him some distinct intimation was plain ; but the dying lips had 
not been able to utter it; the secret was buried with him in the 
remote family graveyard, under the great cypresses. 

More than once Harley asked himself whether it were possible 
that his uncle had been laboring, at the moment of his death, under 
mental aberration ? But the testimony of Colonel Hartright upon 
this point was perfectly distinct. There had been no evidence of 
any such thing. The mind of the dying man had never wandered. 
His eyes had preserved their clear, calm, shrewd expression to the 
last. Of his complete possession of all his faculties there had been 
no reason to entertain a rational doubt. He had spoken upon other 
topics a few minutes before, in the most intelligent and matter-of- 
fact manner; there could be no question, in a word, that his brain 
was clear, and that he had a distinct, business-like message to send 
Harley, in reference to something in, or connected with, the 
“Blackwater Swamp,” the well-known morass on the Huntsdon 
estate. 

What was that something? Had- Mr. Hartright taken up the 
fancy — moulding the said fancy into a hobby — that untold wealth 
for his nephew lay in this rich ooze if once it were drained? Had 
he used that mysterious form of words in his letter to bring his 
beloved nephew back to Virginia? All this was an absolute mystery 
— all the more since Saunders had stated Mr. Hartright’s utter con- 
tempt for the theory of drainage. Lost thus in a maze of conjec- 
ture, and unable to And the end of the thread and unravel the web, 
Harley reached Oakhill, rode up to the door, gave his horse to a 
servant and went in. 

30 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


31 


Colonel Hartright— richly dressed, his hair powdered, leaning 
upon his cane, with an expression far from cheerful or amiable upon 
his ruddy features — stood awaiting him in the large drawing-room. 
No other persons were present but an aged lawyer, Mr. Barradale, 
from Williamsburg, and the family physician. Dr. Wills, whom we 
have seen arrive at Oakhill on the day of Mr. Hartright’s death. 
He had now come to attend the opening of the will, by request of 
the owner of the mansion. 

Colonel Hartright advanced one step, and making Harley a 
ceremonious bow, said : 

“ I have requested your presence to-day, sir, as my note has in- 
formed you, in order that you might witness the opening of the late 
Mr. Hartright’s will. I am not aware that any other relatives of 
his live in Virginia, or they would have been summoned.” 

Harley bowed, and sat down in the chair toward which his uncle 
waved his hand in an august manner. 

“I will state,” continued Colonel Hartright, who seemed to have 
made up his mind to go through the scene with business-like cool- 
ness, and to suppress his private emotions completely, “ that on the 
day after the death of the late Mr. George Hartright, I proceeded, 
in presence of Dr. Wills, the friend and physician of the deceased, 
to ascertain where he had deposited his will ; and we had no diffi- 
culty whatever in discovering it, as Mr. Hartright was wholly 
methodical, and had placed the instrument in the desk of his 
writing-table, the key of which was found in the pocket of the coat 
which he wore when taken ill. I will state, before proceeding 
further, that at the time of Mr. Hartright’s death, he held in his 
hand, unobserved by me, another key of small size, which Dr. Wills 
took from his hand, and is under the impression he presented to 
me at the time. Of this I have no recollection. The statement of 
Dr. Wills is of course beyond question, but I only remember that 
such a key was found in the hand of Mr. Hartright — at the time 
dead. Beyond this I am unable to speak with distinctness, and 
must content myself with saying that if the key was received by 
me, it must have been dropped or mislaid; or, if placed in my 
pocket, lost therefrom.” 

“That is the most probable supposition,” said Dr. Wills. “ You 
received the key when it was handed to you, in an absent manner. 
AVhether it was placed in your pocket or not I cannot state.” 

Colonel Hartright stiffly inclined his head. 

“ It may be — probably is — a matter of no importance. Still, I 
have spoken of it. What door, drawer, or other receptacle was 
opened by the key I do not know. If placed by me in my pocket, 
it has been lost.” 


32 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


While uttering these words, Colonel Hartright went to a table 
standing by one of the windows ; on this table was a stationary 
desk, the key in the lock. 

“Mr. Barradale,” he said, “be obliging enough to open this desk. 
You will find in it a paper, marked ^My last will, — George Hart- 
right.’ The paper has not been touched. It lies where the late 
Mr. Hartright placed it.” 

The lawyer opened the desk, took out of it a paper, looked at it, 
and unfolding it, said : 

“ This paper is marked as Colonel Hartright has stated. I will 
proceed to read it.” 

Mr. Barradale adjusted his spcetacles, held the paper at arm’s 
length, and read it aloud in a humdrum voice. 

The last will and testament of George Hartright, Esq., was a brief 
and perfectly explicit document. He had had no blood relations in 
the world but his brother, the two sons of his sister, Mrs. Harley, 
and a few very distant cousins in England, who were wholly indif- 
ferent to him. The question lay, therefore, between his brother, to 
whom he had been greatly devoted, and his two nephews ; and his 
will had evidently been framed with the view of gratifying all. He 
left his whole property, consisting of his “ Glenvale ” estate, about 
fifteen thousand acres, and his “ Elmwood ” estate, of about five 
thousand — in all some twenty thousand acres — with the servants 
and personal property on both, to his brother, Joshua Hartright. 
There was but one qualifying clause, which was in these words : 

“ And I request my said beloved brother, Joshua Hartright, unless 
he sees reason to act in a difierent manner, to leave the “ Glenvale” 
estate, with the personal property thereon, at his death, to my 
nephew, Justin Harley ; and the “Elmwood” estate, with personal 
property, in like manner to my nephew, St. George Harley.” 

Some valuable investments in London were disposed of in the 
same manner. They were left to Colonel Hartright, to be divided 
at his death, if he so willed, between Justin and St. George Harley. 

Mr. Barradale folded up the paper. Colonel Hartright cleared 
his throat, and said : 

“ I was not aware of my brother’s intentions in the disposal of his 
property. Will you be good enough, sir, to take charge of this, his 
last will and testament, and have it admitted to probate ?” 

Colonel Hartright then rose, and added, in a ceremonious manner, 
that dinner would be ready in an hour. This Announcement was 
received with evident approval by all but Harley. He rose, regret- 
ted that he had business, bowed, and retired. 

The disposition made by his uncle of his entire property had in 
no degree disappointed Harley, who— indififerent by native bent of 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


33 


character to money matters — had never built any air-castles upon 
the probabilities of inheriting from his uncle. That the brother 
should have the lands instead of the nephews seemed entirely 
proper in his eyes ; and he had not left Oakhill a mile behind him 
when he dismissed the subject from his mind without an effort, and 
began to ponder upon that other matter, which had now taken ab- 
solute possession of him. What could have been the meaning of 
his uncle George in sending him that message? To induce him to 
drain the Swamp ? But then his mind persistently reverted to the 
conversation with Saunders. His uncle was bitterly opposed to 
draining; then it was impossible that he could have had reference 
to this as a source of wealth to be found by Harley “ in the Black- 
water Swamp.” Was buried in the morass? The idea was 
for many reasons quite preposterous and visionary. His uncle had 
never possessed any ready money, having an eccentric aversion to 
the sight of it. He had shipped his great crops to London, ordered 
and paid for whatever he wished, having the articles re-shipped, 
and invested the remainder in English securities. First it was 
necessary to have money ; then to wish to cmceal money ; lastly, to 
hide it in a swamp ten miles off ; all of which was an utter absurdity. 

“My uncle was an eccentric person,” Harley muttered, “but very 
far from a senseless one. This puzzle becomes more puzzling than 
ever — any clue more hopeless, it seems, than at first. But I am 
satisfied that there is a clue ; he must have had a meaning, and a 
distinct and rational one. I see nothing to do but to get on my 
horse, and go and look around me in this same swamp — a humdrum 
and commonplace morass, one would think. I shall find nothing; 
but I shall kill the hours of daylight, which make me mope, mope ! 
Night and sleep will come sooner; and sleep means forgetting, 
which I think is the luxury of life !” 

These muttered words were replied to by a mutter from the 
clouds overhead. Harley had not observed that a heavy storm had 
gathered, and that he was still some miles from Huntsdon, near 
the Blackwater Swamp. ubRARY 

OF THE 

SUP/.COUNCIL, 

SO/JURtSDICTION. 




CHAPTER VII. 

AT THE FORD OF THE BLACKWATEE. 

The Blackwater is a tributary of the Nottoway river, and its turbid 
and sullen waters flow in the direction of that tract, full of weird 
and mysterious interest, which has received the appropriate name 
of the Dismal Swamp. Both the Nottoway and the Blackwater 
have a character of their own. The latter flows here and there 
between high banks, densely wooded, which the dark waters often 
hollow out, exposing the gnarled and fantastic roots of the trees 
above. Then the banks trend away into low grounds, the current 
running deep and strong in the narrow channel spreads out, and a 
swamp appears. These huge tracts are overgrown with cypress, 
juniper, and black gum; they are silent, dreary, forbidding; the 
foot at every step sinks in the treacherous ooze ; and the hiss of the 
moccasin in the slime is echoed by the weird hoot of the owl, or 
the cry of the whip-poor-will in the depths of the jungle. 

Justin Harley, riding homeward from Oakhill, entered the skirts 
of one of the largest of these morasses, called, par excellence^ the 
“ Blackwater Swamp,” before he was aware of the fact. It is a mis- 
use of terms, perhaps, to say that he entered the swamp. The county 
road which he pursued sought carefully to avoid the undesirable 
locality, but finding it necessary to pass through its skirts, he did 
so on a bed of logs and heaped up earth, leaping deep holes, full of 
black ooze, here and there, on rude log bridges, and hastening on 
to firmer ground. 

Harley looked over his shoulder as he followed this rude high- 
way, overshadowed by cypresses. 

“ Not a time to explore the swamp to any great advantage,” he 
said, “ and yet I have nothing to do to-day, and the storm will soon 
be over.” 

He went on, looking for an opening. There was none through 
which it seemed possible to force his horse. He was still searching, 
when a distant shot came from the swamp, the noise of something 
forcing its way through the swamp was heard, and five minutes 
afterward a fallow deer broke through the vines shrouding a clump 
of laurel, and, clearing the causeway at a bound, disappeared 
beyond. ■ • 

i4 



n 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 35 

“A deer-hunter,” Harley muttered. “ He takes bad weather for 
his sport. If he can pass through I can ; hut decidedly I will put 
it off. The storm is coming.” 

He looked up, and saw the sky filled with black clouds, traversed 
from moment to moment by the fiery zigzags of the lightning. 

“ I’ll go back,” he said. 

And pushing his horse to a gallop, he emerged from the swamp, 
and entered on a firm road, which ran along the left bank of the 
Black water, between high banks, opening here and there to give 
access to the deep, narrow fords of the river. A glance toward 
the stream, as he passed, showed him that the waters were greatly 
swollen, no doubt by heavy rains toward the sources of the river, 
which had the peculiarity of rising and falling with great rapidity. 
The waters were now galloping through its high banks, with that 
hoarse and threatening roar which accompanies a freshet. The 
fords seemed impassable. 

In approaching one of these fords, Harley exhibited a very singu- 
lar emotion. The ford was reached by a cut in the bank on each 
side, and the current at the spot was strong, breaking, just below, 
upon a mass of earth and rock, scarcely large enough to call an 
island. Harley looked only once in the direction of the ford, and 
turned his head abruptly from it, as if it suggested some unpleasant 
recollection. 

“ What^ made me forget that I would pass this spot ?” he said, 
half-aloud. 

His head turned completely from it, and he went on at greater 
speed, with the evident desire to avoid all sight of it. He had just 
passed the cut in the bank leading down to the ford when a cry was 
heard. 

This cry was— “ Help !” 




CHAPTER VIII. 

IN THE WATER. 

The cry for help was uttered by Judge Bland, who, swept away 
by the current of the Blackwater, called aloud for some one to come 
to the assistance of his daughter, who seemed about to share his fate.* 

They had ridden out, as we have seen, in the morning to visit Mr. 
Randolph, a neighbor, on the opposite side of the Blackwater, and 
no difficulty had been experienced in passing the ford, as the stream 
had not then risen. On their return all was changed. The rains 
had done their worst; the river was rushing between its banks, 
and Judge Bland saw at a glance that the ford, so easily crossed in 
the morning, was now dangerous or impracticable. 

Evelyn had pushed her small horse into the water before her 
father was aware of it. 

“ Do not attempt it, my daughter ! Take care !” 

A gay laugh came back. 

“Brownie can swim! — but he will not have to! Look, papa! 
The water is not up to the saddle !” 

An instant afterward, the small animal was swept from his feet. 
Judge Bland, driving his horse with the spur, caught at the bridle, 
but failed to reach it. He was swept down ; his frightened horse 
became unmanageable ; the aged gentleman lost his seat and was 
carried away, uttering, as the water caught him, that cry for 
“ help” — not for himself, but for his daughter. 

Harley had reached the bank in a few bounds of his horse, and 
first caught a glimpse of Judge Bland’s riderless animal as the cur- 
rent bore him down. But something more frightful quickly at- 
tracted his attention. Through a mass of foliage dipping in the 
stream he saw, in the middle of the current, the head and shoul- 
ders of Evelyn. She was clinging to the neck of her horse, which 
the water was sweeping away; a moment afterward the animal 
struck, and half-rose upon, the small island mentioned. The girl 
was thrown forward on the debris of rock and earth, and the animal, 
as though nothing had happened, struck out for shore, and safely 
reached the bank some distance below. 

Harley was already in the stream, swimming toward the island. 
Accustomed to rough riding, and mounted on a well-trained and 
powerful animal, he reached the island without trouble. Pushing 
his horse upon the mass of rock, he left him standing there and 

36 



JUSTIN HARLEY, 


37 


ran to the girl. She had half-risen, lying upon her right side, and 
supporting herself with both hands. 

Her first cry was “ Oh! my father! my father \” 

“I must think of you first,” said Harley, coolly; “the river is 
rising. There is no time to be lost. Rise, if you can ; if you cannot, 
I will lift you.” 

The poor girl was nearly distracted with grief, and only wrung 
her hands, crying, “ Father ! father !” 

Harley thereupon took her up in his arms, as he would have 
•lifted a baby ; carried her to the horse ; placed her on her feet, sup- 
porting her with his left arm around her waist, and, mounting, drew 
her up before him. He then drove his horse into the stream, say- 
ing, as he did so, 

“There is the chance that my horse will reach shore without 
accident. If he strikes a root, there will be danger. Then, try not 
to cling to me, as you will probably drown yourself and me too.' 

The angry waves were by this time roaring around them and ouf- 
feting them. Harley supported the girl without the least difl3.culty, 
and they would speedily have reached shore, but then, all at once, 
occurred what he had feared. The powerful animal, swept head- 
long, but swimming bravely, suddenly struck, and entangled his 
legs in, a submerged root of one of the large trees leaning from the 
bank, raised himself out of water, uttered a sharp neigh, and, 
turning on his side, was carried under. 

Harley had provided for the accident. He had taken his feet 
from the stirrups, and clung only with his knees. As the horse 
sank he threw himself from the saddle, and passing his left arm 
around the young lady’s back, and under her arm, struck out with 
his right. 

They would have reached shore in a few moments, but suddenly 
the young girl’s arms darted toward his neck, and the small hands 
were clasped around it. 

“Do not cling to me! You will drown yourself.” 

The hands clung all the tighter, and Harley felt that he was sink- 
ing. The thought passed through his mind, “ If this were a man, 
I would know what to do — I would use brute force; but it is a 
woman!” His head was dragged down; the pale face of the girl 
was against his cheek — her eyes closed ; the fatal arms still clinging 
around his neck. Making a last effort — as he was sinking, in spite 
of his great strength — Harley seized with his right hand the two 
delicate wrists of the girl, tore them violently from his neck ; caught 
them with his left hand, twisted them upward in his strong grasp, 
and throwing the weight of her body on his left shoulder, struck 
out once more with his right arm. 

4 


38 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


They were saved. The girl was now a mere dead-weight, and 
Harley swam with her to a projecting point of sand where the 
ground was level, found his feet touch earth, and carried her in his 
arms to the dry land. ' She had fainted. 

Harley had just placed her on the bank, when a low moan came 
from some water-flags, ten paces ofi*. He went to the spot, and 
reached it just as Judge Bland was dragging his bruised limbs from 
the water. He had been swept, by main force of the current, on 
the low bank, and narrowly escaped drowning. 

His flrst cry was— “My daughter !” 

“ She is safe,” said Harley. Then he exclaimed : 

“ Judge Bland ? I am Justin Harley, sir. Thank God ! I was here 
to help my father’s friend. But here is Miss Bland.” He pointed 
to her. “ She is unhurt.”. 

The old gentleman was already lifting his daughter in his arms. 
Evelyn opened her eyes, saw him, clung around his neck, and burst 
into tears, exclaiming : 

“Oh, father! father!” 

The horses of the whole party had the good fortune to get out of 
the fierce current unhurt, and were easily caught. The storm had 
muttered away into the distance. Evelyn had been lifted to the 
saddle by her father, and they returned homeward, Harley leaving 
them where the road divided. He would come to Blandfield and 
pay his respects, he said; then, in response to Judge Bland’s earnest 
words, he pressed that gentleman’s hand, made a ceremonious bow 
to the young lady, and went toward Huntsdon. 

“ Well, this is something like an adventure,” he said, as he rode 
homeward. “ If I read it in a romance, I should no doubt sneer at 
the writer for straining after effect, inventing the improbable, and 
for not confining himself to the good, respectable, natural hum- 
drum of every day. Well, I prefer humdrum, I think. I am not a 
romance-hero. I shall not establish further relations with this 
Jiandsome damsel.” 

After going a little further, he said, half-aloud, as before : 

•“ I will go back to Europe. This country depresses me more than 
ever. That ford on the Blackwater had a sickening effect on me ; 
I had forgotten it was there.” 

As he came near Huntsdon, the sky overhead had become per- 
fectly clear, and the sun sent a crimson glare from beneath two 
bars of black cloud on the horizon. The red light slept on the trees 
and the long facade of the building. Not a leaf stirred ; not a sound 
disturbed the silence. 

“ I will go back,” he muttered. “ I am determined on that. I 
can endure anything better than this pitiless serenity of nature !” 



JUDGE BLAND WAS DRAGGING HIS BRUISED LIMBS FROM THE WATER,’’—?, 38, 








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CHAPTER IX. 

COLONEL HARTRIGUT EXPLODES. 

On the next morning a money-lender came to Huntsdon, sent in 
his name, — Mr. Hicks, — and bowing low as he entered the drawing- 
room where Harley awaited him, hoped that gentleman was in the 
enjoyment of good health. 

Mr. Hicks was a small, wiry personage, with a thin face, a keen 
pair of eyes, and a stereotyped smile. His dress was plain and un- 
assuming — indeed, rather shabby — and he held in his dingy hand a 
dilapidated hat, with a broad brim, which, being too large for him, 
generally reposed upon his ears — too large, like the hat, for his other 
proportions. His hair was short and red — his eyebrows bushy. 

Harley always came to the point in business matters. 

“ Sit down, sir,” he said. “ I owe you money.” 

“A little trifle of from three to five thousand pounds, Mr. Harley.” 

“You want the money?” 

Mr. Hicks cleared his throat. 

“ Money is money, Mr. Harley, you know. Still, ” 

Now Mr. Hicks was putting himself to an enormous amount of 
unnecessary trouble. He had not come to demand payment of the 
amount, lent on mortgage to Harley during his absence, but to lend 
him more. The explanation of this desire was simple. Dr. Wills 
was a gossip. He met the parson of the parish on his w^ay home 
from Oakhill, and casually mentioned that Mr. George Hartright 
had left his fine “Glenvale” estate to Justin Harley. Mr. Hicks, 
riding by as the news was communicated, heard it; and as Mr. 
Hicks had at the time the sum of two thousand pounds to lend on 
mortgage, at a little, or a good deal, above the legal rate of interest, 
he thought he could not do better than propose the loan to a young 
gentleman of lavish expenditure, who would like to anticipate his 
resources. 

“ The fact is, Mr. Harley,” said Mr. Hicks, “ I have a regard for 
you, and am not the man, you know, to press a gentleman. I could 
even let you have a trifle more on good security, Mr. Harley, you 
know.” 

Harley reflected. 

89 


40 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ I want two thousand pounds. 1 am going back to Europe. Will 
you lend it on this property ?” 

“ Hum ! — well ; now to tell you the fact, Mr. Harley, this property 
is in bad order, you know ; and then the other mortgage ” 

“Very well. This is all I possess.” 

Dr. Hicks stared. He was certain that he had heard Dr. Wills 
tell the parson that the “Glenvale” estate had been left to Justin 
Harley. He now intimated his impression upon that point, and 
Harley as promptly undeceived him. The “ Glenvale ” property was 
left, he informed Mr. Hicks, to his uncle, Colonel Hartright, with 
the simple expression of a wish that it might revert, if Colonel Hart- 
right saw no reason to change the reversion, to himself. 

Mr. Hicks looked extremely blank, reflected, became much de- 
pressed, brightened up slowly, and Anally proposed to lend the 
money “all the same” on Harley’s bond, at an exorbitant interest. 
He had said to himself, “ Colonel Hartright loved his brother. He 
will leave the property to the young man.” 

Harley refused to pay the interest demanded; and Mr. Hicks, 
with many groans and prostestations that a less percentage would 
ruin him, “the way money then was — tight, sir, tight as wax,” — 
consented to ruin himself. On the next morning he brought the 
money, took Harley’s obligation, and went away, saying : 

“There is a spendthrift who will belong to me. He is borrowing 
at high interest to squander !” 

Mr. Hicks was blundering — as intelligent men will. Justin Har- 
ley was princely in character, and disregarded money. If Mr. 
Hicks had not come to Huntsdon on that morning, it had been his 
intention to send for the money-lender, and obtain from him a new 
loan for a specific object — but that object was not his own gratifi- 
cation in the least. 

This object may be simply stated. Harley was firmly convinced 
that, in spite of his great physical strength and apparent health, he 
would not live long. He faced this conviction with perfect cool- 
ness, thinking of but one thing — how he could transmit the 
Huntsdon estate to his beloved younger brother, St. George, or 
“Sainty.” He had thrown away his money in Europe very reck- 
lessly, and suddenly found Huntsdon encumbered. He resolved to 
free the estate from this encumbrance. To do so, it was only ne- 
cessary, he felt sure, to drain the rich expanse of the Blackwater 
Swamp, and this he resolved to do with his two thousand pounds. 
When this great work should be well commenced, he had deter- 
mined to place his younger brother in charge of the work, return to 
Europe, bury himself in some corner of France or Spain, live on a 
pittance, and end in due time a life which was not happy — and 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


41 


unhappiest of all, for some reason, it seemed, when his days passed 
in Virginia. 

Such was the intention of the young spendthrift of Mr. Hicks’ 
imagination. The money-lender did not speak of the transaction, 
but the young lawyer who drew the paper — for Mr. Hicks’ education 
had been neglected — did. Chancing to be at Oakhill on some busi- 
ness with Colonel Hartright, the lawyer incidentally mentioned the 
loan, and as the Colonel was in a bad humor, his suspicions were 
suddenly excited ; he jumped to a conclusion, exploded, and wrote 
the following note to Harley : 

Sir: I have reason to conclude that you have been borrowing 
money on your expectations, in connection with my late brother’s 
property, to waste in reckless extravagance in foreign countries. 
I wTite this to inform you that, if I have a say in that matter, as I 
think I have, you will be dissappointed. I will not have the property 
of my brother George pass into the hands of money-lenders to 
supply your extravagance or your vices. 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“Joshua Hartright.” 

Harley read the note with entire coolness, and sent back this 
reply : 

Sir: So be it. Life is, after all, so stupid an affair that justice 
or injustice are the same. 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“Justin Harley.” 

He then ordered his horse, and rode out. 



4 * 



CHAPTER X. 

THE VISIT. 

Evelyn Bland came down on this morning in a charming neg- 
lige, which made her undeniable beauty more attractive than usual. 
From head to foot the young lady was dazzling with youth, health 
and loveliness. The morning-dress which she wore clearly defined 
the fine outline of her slender figure ; the small feet which peeped 
out from the skirt of her dress were clad in morocco slippers, with 
high heels and large red rosettes; and her head was a cluster of 
brown curls, beneath which appeared a pair of red cheeks, rosy lips, 
and the deep blue eyes, tinted with purple, which looked into your 
own with an expression of candor and innocence which made you 
love her, and look upon her as you look upon a bud from the fiower- 
border, fresh with the dews of morning. 

She ran into her grandma’s room— a large apartment on the 
ground-fioor of Blandfield — and found that aged lady long since 
up, in her great elbow chair, with the roomy seat and high back, 
busily knitting. Judge Bland was riding out on the estate ; the 
chamber was already set to rights, and grandma was looking from 
beneath her silver spectacles on a small host of young and old 
Africans, cutting out and basting “full cloth” for the servants’ 
clothes. 

“ Good morning, dear !” said the tall, straight, gray-haired old 
lady, in her black dress, smiling sweetly as she spoke ; her voice 
was as sweet as her smile, and had a silvery intonation. “ Good 
morning ! And how has my little girl slept?” 

“As well as could be expected, after our terrible accident, 
grandma.” 

Evelyn put her arms around the aged lady’s neck and kissed her 
as she spoke. 

“ Yes, yes, my child, very terrible ! And you were saved hv vounff 
Harley?”' ’ e 

“ Yes, grandma.” 

“ A very fine-looking young man when I remember him ; it was 
ten years ago, I think. Was it ten years? How time does fiy I” 

“ Yes indeed, grandma.” 

“ And young Harley has been to Europe ?” 

42 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


43 


“ For a long time, I believe.” 

“ It used to be more the fashion than at present. William Byrd, 
of Westover, was away for many years — ah! he was very elegant. 
They have his portrait at Westover, and Evelyn Byrd’s too, your 
cousin and your namesake, my dear — a very good likeness and very 
pretty.” 

“ It is exquisite, grandma. I have seen it. You know Colonel 
Byrd very well, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, yes! It seems strange ; but I was young once, and we were 
all boys and girls together.” 

Grandma took up a stitch. 

“ Ah ! my dear,” she continued, “ we had a delightful society in 
Virginia when I was a girl — a little too much given, perhaps, to 
merry-making, and rather thoughtless, but a friendly, kindly set 
of people.” 

“ What could be better? And I’m sure you are enough to make 
anybody fall in love with that generation, you dear old grandma ! 
Do you know I think we are growing stupid, and the young men 
awkward? Positively not one can dance the minuet now decently.” 

“It is a pity ; no dance is more stately ; and I knew some ad- 
mirably graceful performers in old times. Edmund Randolph was 
famous for his grace, and so was Henry Harley, of Huntsdon, the 
father of your friend.” 

“ He must have been an elegant person, grandma.” 

“Very elegant, indeed— tall, distinguished, and remarkably cordial 
in his manners. Mrs. Harley— she was his second wife— was Ellen 
Hartright, a younger sister of Mr. George Hartright— a beautiful 
young girl. The young men Justin and St. George Harley are her 
children. St. George, I remember, was a lovely baby, and Justin 
was always noted for his goodness.” 

“ You remember all the kind things about people, dear grandma, 
and that is because you yourself are so kind. And so the returned 
traveller, Mr. Justin Harley, was a very good boy, was he?” 

“ A good child and a good boy.” 

“ What is his age, grandma ? 

“ Let me see. His mother died in — no, in — well, my poor memory 
is failing. But the young man must be thirty, I suppose. It is 
time he should be married if he is going to be.” 

“ Married ! Always something about marriage !” said a voice be- 
hind the young lady ; and Miss Clementina Bland came into the 
room, gently waving a large fan, her inseparable companion in all 
seasons, hot or cold. Miss Clementina was a lady of “ uncertain 
age but that fact did not prevent her from paying assiduous at- 
tention to personal decoration. Her hair was elaborately curled 


44 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


also elaborately powdered — also pierced with two silver arrows, and 
decorated with a string of pearls. In addition, her neck, which 
was a handsome one, was half displayed, and she wore light slip- 
pers and numerous ribbons. She came in elaborately, — the word 
best describes her motions — as though entering a saloon filled with 
company. 

“ Of whom were you speaking, my child ?” said Miss Clementina, 
with an elderly air. 

“ Of Mr. Harley,” said Evelyn. 

“ A most horrid young man I hear,” said the lady. 

“ He saved my life !” exclaimed Evelyn. 

“Ah ! Well, I suppose he did make himself useful. What has he 
come back from Europe for? Has he brought his wife with him?” 

“His wife!” exclaimed Evelyn, laughing. “You do not mean 
that he is married ?” 

“I really don’t know. Wasn’t he married? I must have heard 
the report somewhere. All men are alike, and all women — geese ! 
But there is breakfast.” 


And forgetting her indignation against the institution of marriage, 
and those who gave it countenance, in her fondness for tea. Miss 
Clementina waved her fan with graceful deliberation before her face, 
sailed from the room, and proceeded in the direction of breakfast! 

The morning passed on. Evelyn spent it in idleness, strolling 
indolently from room to room — from the drawing-room to the 
porch— and looking down the avenue. 

What was she thinking of? And was she expecting anybody? 
It is difficult to follow the train of thought in the mind of a maiden 
of nineteen. It is shown perhaps; it seldom expresses itself. Miss 
Evelyn Bland was plainly expecting somebody, and at about one 
o clock this somebody came— Justin Harley. 

Thereupon Miss Evelyn disappeared; she had seen him as he 
entered the great gate, and going quietly to her chamber, began a 
rapid toilet. In the midst thereof, the step of the visitor was heard 
upon the portico; a servant came at his summons, and Evelvn 
listening, heard Harley ask for Judge Bland. ’ 

She left the window and threw herself upon a lounge, with an ex- 
pression of decided ill-humor and an elaborate pout. It was un- 
pardonable ! Who could have believed it! A gentleman to violate 
in this manner every rule of good society !— not to ask for the 
ladies. Mr. Justin Harley might amuse himself as he could; cer- 
tainly she would not inflict her stupid society upon him ! 

Meanwhile Harley had been shown into the drawing-room; and 
Judge Bland, who had been busy with some law papers in his study 
came down immediately. ^ 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


45 


Miss Evelyn Bland was piqued, and in a defiant state of mind, but 
curiosity conquered. She opened her door very slightly, leaned 
against the frame-work, and listened. There was no difficulty in 
hearing the voices. The cordial old Judge greeted Harley with 
great warmth, uttered a few feeling words in reference to the acci- 
dent, and Harley’s instrumentality in saving the life of one very 
dear to him, and then the conversation passed to politics, neighbor- 
hood news, the prospect of the trouble with the Indians, and other 
topics, which Miss Evelyn Bland evidently regarded as intensely 
wearisome, tor she closed her door, and taking up a book, proceeded 
to pout at it, and read it upside down. 

At the end of two hours, Harley rose, and declining the hospita- 
ble urging of Judge Bland to stay longer, went toward the door. All 
at once he stopped and bowed. Into the apartment sailed Miss 
Clementina, who smiled sweetly upon the visitor, and began a fiow 
of talk which paralyzed him. Harley would have felt disposed to 
indulge in satirical laughter if any one had said that he could not 
leave an apartment at any moment that it was agreeable to him to 
do so. And yet on this occasion he attempted four distinct times 
to rise and take his departure, and each time Miss Clementina 
literally talked him down into his seat again. Dreadful was the 
flow of it — a ceaseless flood. 

Diverted from one subject. Miss Clementina instantly flowed on- 
ward in the new direction. When any one attempted to intrude an 
observation, she drowned the speaker’s voice by raising her own, 
and plunging into a new subject; and Harley began to feel a species 
of paralysis, when the dinner-bell rang. 

Evelyn was compelled to appear ; her absence was becoming dis- 
courtesy. She came into the drawing-room, approached Harley 
with the most cordial unconstraint, held out her hand, and said with 
a smile : 

“ I am very glad to see you, Mr. Harley.” 

Harley bowed. 

“I ought to thank you,” said Evelyn, “for saving my life; but I 
suppose you knight-errant people take pride in rescuing girls. I am 
very much obliged to you indeed, and I am afraid I nearly sufib- 
cated you in the water, when I clung to you. I was very much 
frightened, and feared I was drowning.” 

Judge Bland came up, smiling. 

“ Come, my dear, dinner is waiting,” he said. 

Three hours afterward, Harley was still at Blandfield, absorbed in 
the vivid and charming conversation of Judge Bland, who, seated 
upon one of the rustic seats on the lawn, spoke of the father of 
Harley, and the great men of his day. Harley listened with deep 


46 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


attention. There was something delightful to him in the talk of 
this elegant and distinguished gentleman. They were talking still, 
toward twilight, when the harpsichord was touched, and Judge 
Bland said — 

“ There is Evelyn.” 

Harley rose, went to the harpsichord, and with an air of polite 
indifference asked the young lady to sing. Evelyn did not seem 
to observe the tone,, smiled in her sweetest manner, and sang a 
Scottish ditty, with such tenderness in her clear young voice, that 
Harley lost his indifference, feeling something like a breath of 
youth revisit him. 

An hour afterward he was on his way back to Huntsdon. He 
went along musing, allowing his horse to walk slowly. 

“A gentleman of the highest distinction,” he said, “and a happy 
household. It is lucky when marriage comes to that. A beauty, 
this Miss Evelyn, as the world goes, and seems sincere. I wonder! 
But what matter ? Before I’ll think again of any woman ” 

He left the sentence unfinished, and rode on. 





CHAPTER XI. 

ST. LEGER. 

Harley uttered the words recorded at the end of the last chapter 
in a tone which left no doubt of his meaning. Whence had arisen 
this antipathy? From some disappointment in love, as Miss Cle- 
mentina had asserted? It was possible; but other peculiarities of 
the man were not so easily explained, and seemed to have had their 
origin in some personal experience of a more serious character. 

What impressed people most forcibly, at first sight of Harley, was 
his gloomy composure. He attempted plainly to hide this melan- 
choly under a phlegmatic exterior — but there it was. Could a mere 
love-affair, resulting unfortunately, have caused this? The fact 
seemed doubtful. The man’s mind was evidently strong, healthful, 
well-poised, free from the least tendency to fanciful regrets or sad- 
ness, and yet there was plainly something on his mind. Something 
in his life had clearly made him gloomy, and spoiled his sunshine. 
A happy man, with nothing in his memory to depress him, laughs, 
plays with children, jest with his friends, lolls, talk of the weather, 
and is commonplace and natural in his moods — grave or gay. J ustin 
Harley had not the least tendency toward any one of the proceed- 
ings here mentioned. He did not laugh; he did not jest; he took 
no interest in the little home details of life. He moped. 

He had acquired in Germany the habit of smoking a short black 
pipe, and used powerful tobacco. Tho “ Virginia weed,” as it was 
once called, is a mild and pleasing narcotic to mind and body, with 
most persons, bringing cheerful reverie and golden moods ; but it 
seemed only to deaden Harley, making him duller. The statement 
already made sums up all. He seemed to have something on his 
mind, and this something strained the cords of his brain, pro- 
ducing lassitude and unrest. He was never long out of the saddle, 
and rode as often at night as by day. Often he could not sleep, and 
read and walked to and fro in his room until daylight — a habit 
which probably explained the peculiarity mentioned by Judge 
Bland, that he would never sleep without a light in his apartment. 
The outline here drawn of a man possessed by some thought ever- 
present to his consciousness, and unable to banish it, may seem a 

47 



48 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


distorted and exaggerated one to those excellent and fortunate per- 
sons with good digestions, happy firesides, and the evening news- 
paper ; but humanity is none the less subject — from accident, if 
there lye such, or their own fault — to these moods. The physicians 
tell you, in a matter-of-fact way, that it is the liver. 

From this digression we come back to Justin Harley, and add 
that, ten days after his visit to Blandfield, he spent nearly the whole 
night walking up and down his chamber, and at daylight rang for 
his old body-servant, a gray -haired African, and ordered his horse 
to be saddled, also the hounds to be unloosed. He was determined 
to have a fox-hunt. 

Having taken a slight breakfast, chiefly consisting of some very 
strong tea, Harley mounted, called his tawny pack around him, 
started on his hunt, and soon the distant cry of the hounds indi- 
cated that the fox was unearthed. 

Two hours afterward, a young man of about twenty -five, elegantly ' 
clad, and riding a fine English hunter, rode up ,to the front door of 
Huntsdon, and, calling to a servant, asked if this was the residence 
of Mr. Justin Harley. The reply was a respectful aflirmative. 

Where was Mr. Harley?” 

He was hunting — toward the river. 

“What river?” 

They called it the Blackwater river. 

The servant pointed in the direction of the stream as he spoke, 
and, after hesitating a moment, the visitor rode in the direction in- 
dicated. 

Harley followed his dogs for four hours, riding like the wild 
huntsman. The exercise brought some color to his cheeks, and 
better than all, seemed to have banished the moody thought which 
had strained to high pressure his mental machinery. Nothing stu- 
pefies like a gallop, or rather, nothing diverts and exhilarates so 
much. Every fence cleared took a part of the load from his mind, 
and the ditches were so deep and dangerous often, that he had to 
think of them. 

A gray fox is a tough adversary. This one circled over twenty 
miles, and came back — his tail up, with long leaps, and apparently 
unfatigued— to the spot from whence he had started. Harley and 
the dogs were coming, but they had not come. The horseman who 
had stopped at Huntsdon, and then followed in the direction taken 
by Harley, was riding along a narrow road on the banks of the 
Blackwater, not far from the pond which had been the scene of 
Judge Bland’s misadventure, when the cry of the hounds was heard 
in the distance. It steadily approached, and then the fox darted 
across the road, and made through a field beyond, toward a brush- 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


49 


fence crowning a high hank, formed of the earth thrown up from a 
very deep ditch. 

The sight of the game, and the close cry of the hounds, ever ap- 
proaching nearer, excited the horseman. He wheeled, put spurs to 
his hunter, and rode on the track of the fox. Before he had gone 
twenty yards, he found that his horse was in no condition for a run. 
But excitement mastered him. The dogs burst from the bushes, 
and shot by him, wild at sight of the fox, which leaped the ditch 
and the fence. The horseman dug the spur into his animal, and 
pushed him at the ditch and fence ; the hunter rose to the leap, but 
his hind-feet slipped : he pawed the air, reeled backward, and fell 
on his rider, who rolled under him in the ditch. 

The unlucky horseman was striving to avoid the heels of the 
kicking and terrified animal, and extricate himself, when he felt a 
strong grasp on his shoulder. He was dragged from under the 
horse, and a voice said, 

“ St. Leger ! Is it possible ! You in Virginia ?” 

“ Precisely, my dear Harley, and hurt a little, I’m afraid. That 

worthless animal ” He turned somewhat pale as he spoke, and 

said, “ I think" the brute has dislocated my shoulder.” 

“ You need a carriage! — we will talk afterwards. What good star 
sent you? But come! — yonder is a cabin. You may stay there 
until my coach comes and takes you to Huntsdon !” 

Harley’s face glowed. He passed his arm around his friend, sup- 
ported him as he walked, and they reached the cabin. It was a 
rude hut, apparently a trapper’s or fisherman’s, in a sort of gash in 
the hills, and in front of the door sat a girl mending a hand-net. 
The girl seemed to be about fourteen, though she was not, probably, 
so old, and what impressed one, at first sight, w'as the singular con- 
trast between her dress and surroundings and her appearance. She 
wore the plainest homespun, but had the air of a little princess. 
She was an exquisite blonde, with very large blue eyes, a com- 
plexion delicately fair, and a figure as graceful as though she had 
moved all her life in saloons. When she turned her head to look at 
Harley and his friend, her attitude — the bend of the neck, the droop 
of the shoulders — all was so perfect as to cause Harley the utmost 
astonishment. In this rude cabin seemed to have bloomed a flower 
of the woods more delicate than those of the most carefully-culti- 
vated garden. 

One circumstance Harley afterwards recalled, with some surprise, 
as it recurred to him. The bearing and expression of the girl had 
been calm, gentle, and perfectly composed, as they came ; her large, ' 
soft eyes surveyed them without surprise or fear ; but all at once 
the red in her cheeks dissappeared, her eyes filled with sudden 

5 


50 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


fright, and her gaze was riveted upon the young man called Sj. 
Leger. 

“What is the matter, my child?” said Harley, struck by this 
look. 

“ Blood ! — there is blood!” said the girl, shuddering. 

“ Oh it’s nothing — a mere trifle, my pretty maid !” said St. Leger. 
Harley assisted him into the cabin, explained why they had come, 
and then, returning to his horse, who was grazing where he had 
dismounted, rode back rapidly to procure the coach. 

The young stranger was left with the girl, who busied herseh 
arranging the pillows on a little white bed, in a small room behind 
the cabin. This room was evidently her own. Everything about 
it was spotless ; some books lay on a small rude table, and a flower* 
ing vine festooned the window. This nest was the haunt of a girl 
as plainly as the main cabin, with its rude couch, and nest, and 
fishing-tackle, was the haunt of a man. The stranger declared, 
with a light, friendly laugh, that he could not disarrange the bed; 
but the girl begged him, in a very sweet and earnest voice, to lie 
down. He yielded, and then, as his forehead appeared feverish, 
she quickly proceeded to bathe it with a damp cloth — shivering, 
now and then, as her eyes fell upon the blood from the bruise on 
his shoulder. The young man closed his eyes : there was something 
delightful in the touch of the delicate fingers. When he opened 
them again, he saw bending over him the fresh, tender face, framed 
in its auburn hair, with the large eyes looking into his own. He 
again closed his eyes, and fell into a delicious reverie. He was 
aroused from it by the sound of wheels, and, opening his eyes again, 
became conscious of something which made him laugh. 

In a purely unconscious manner, one of his hands had fallen at 
his side, had there encountered one of the girl’s w^hich was hanging 
down, and closed around it, and she, fearing to wake him, had left 
her hand in his own. 

Harley came in, and informing his friend that the coach had 
arrived, assisted him to rise and walk to it. St. Leger turned his 
head and held out his hand to the girl. 

“ I am told that in Virginia everybody shakes hands,” he said, 
laughing. The girl gave him her small hand with perfect simplicity 
and grace. 

“ And now your name, my little guardian angel. I would like to 
have a name to think of you by, you know?” 

“ My name is Fanny, sir.” 

“And your father’s?” 

“ Puccoon,” she said. 

Harley turned round. 



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JUSTIN HARLEY. 


51 


“Puccoon, the hunter and trapper, my child?” 

“Yes, sir; he went out hunting this morning.” 

“ He is an old friend of mine, and you must tell him that I have 
come back. My name is Justin Harley, and he must come and see 
me at Huntsdon.” 

The girl ‘promised to deliver the message. Following his friend 
into the coach, Harley demanded an explanation of his sudden ap- 
pearance. 

“Nothing easier, my dear Harley,” returned the joyous young 
fellow, “ and you shall have the narrative with the brevity of a 
military dispatch. You know I left diplomacy for the career of 
arms; that is, to become ensign in the Royal Guard, “ The Blues,” 
which of all the tiresome — but I wander! Well, I grew weary; I 
thirsted for travel. I asked my uncle, the earl, who is a minister, 
to give me dispatches to some part of the world. He laughed, like 
the jolly old boy he is, and said, ‘Would you like Virginia?’ ‘ Of 
all things!’ I said. And behold me in Virginia, with orders for his 
Excellency the Governor. He was absent on my arrival, in pursuit 
of Indians, so I thought I would look at the country, and I had 
heard there was a strange spot call the Dismal Swamp, south of 
James River. I took a hunter from my lord’s stable; crossed the 
river ; rode on ; spent the night at an ordinary ; saw a fine house on 
a hill this morning; heard that it was Justin Harley’s; thought it 
possible, barely, that he might be in Virginia, and ascertaining that 
fact, with the further fact that he was out hunting, followed, and — 
you know the rest.” 

“You are the prince of raconteurs,” said Harley; “you come to 
the point. I am happy, to the full extent of my power to be happy, 
at your coming, St. Leger. Yonder is my house. Welcome!” 

“ I knew I should be welcome, and your house is admirable. I 
like all in Virginia— down to our little princess of the hills yonder, 
who is as delicate as a duchess, and far prettier.” 

“ A beauty — and, strangely, has a rough trapper for a father. But 
here we are at Huntsdon.” 




CHAPTER XII. 

THE NIGHT-HUNT. 

Henry St. Leger was the younger son of an English gentleman 
of ancient family, and had an uncle, an earl, in the ministry. He 
was placed at an early age, through the influence of his noble rela- 
tives, in the diplomatic career, which he had pursued as secretary 
of embassy at Paris, then at Vienna, then at Berlin; when, weary 
of red tape, and dancing at the embassy balls, he had sought and 
obtained, through purchase and influence combined, the commis- 
sion of ensign in the Guards, then called the “Blues,” the most 
select and aristocratic of corps. As the headquarters of the “ Blues ” 
were necessarily in London, St. Leger had an excellent opportunity 
to study military afiairs ; but the routine of duty was disagreeable to 
him : he longed for movement, adventure, new scenes, and thought 
often, with a sort of craving regret, of days spent in the wilds of 
Hungary with a friend whose acquaintance he had first made at 
Vienna — Justin Harley, of Virginia. 

He had met Harley many years before, and an intimacy had 
sprung up between them. One was cold, the other was impulsive ; 
one was twenty-odd, the other nearly thirty, and older in character 
than in years. Hence the intimacy. The almost severe reserve of 
Harley had a strange attraction for the young and impulsive St. 
Leger, and the warm and cordial traits of the younger person had 
for Harley an even greater charm. They speedily became intimate, 
and then they were separated. St. Leger was transferred, by that 
unseen machinery which regulates the English diplomatic service, 
to Berlin, from which city he passed back to England, and entered 
the Guards. Harley continued to reside at Vienna, contemplating, 
meanwhile, a campaign, under the Russian flag, to the Caucasus, 
when one day he received his uncle’s letter and returned to Vir- 
ginia. 

The circumstances leading to the visit of St. Leger have been 
mentioned. Weary of the routine of guard-duty, he had been 
ofiered the mission of dispatch-bearer to the Governor of Virginia, 
had reached Williamsburg, ridden out to look at the country, gone 
fox-hunting, and been succored by his old friend Justin Harley, 
whom he had left at Vienna. 

52 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


53 


In so unexpected a manner had the two friends, parting in Vienna, 
met once more in Virginia. 

St. Leger’s bruises were painful, but proved trifling. A servant 
was dispatched back to Williamsburg with the Governor’s hunter, 
and tlien St. Leger abandoned himself, with an air of the freshest 
enjoyment, to the pursuits of rural life, determined, he said, to 
make the most of the few days he would remain with his friend. 
There never was a greater contrast than that between the two 
friends. Harley plainly looked upon the visit as an unexpected 
good fortune ; but his gravity was too deep-rooted to readily yield 
to mere impressions, and he remained phlegmatic. St. Leger, on 
the contrary, was youth and frolic incarnate. Everything about 
him seemed to laugh — his eyes, his lips, and the tones of his voice. 
He rallied Harley, inquired about everything, declared Huntsdon a 
superb old castle, and his friend a grand seigneur, and asked what 
game there was to hunt and what young ladies there were to see 
in the Virginia wilds. 

“ There are foxes, deer, partridges, pheasants and woodcock,” said 
Harley.* “ Of the young ladies I know nothing, my dear St. Leger.” 

“ The same old Harley ! — turning your back on every woman you 
meet! What has happend to you?” 

“Nothing,” returned Harley. 

“There was not a duchess, in Vienna that could get a second look 
from you ; and I venture to say there are a dozen beauties around 
you here, without your knowing it. But they can wait! Hunting 
first! What can you offer me?” 

“Something you have never tried— deer-hunting by torchlight.” 

“By torchlight?” 

“The light of a portable fire— shining upon there eyes, and so 
directing your aim.” 

The door opened. 

“Puccoon, sir,” said a servant. 

“Ah! show him in. Here is your man, St. Leger. The best 
huntsman and trapper in the country.” 

Harley went to the door, cordially greeted some one, and said, 
“Come in! come in ! Puccoon!” 

“ My service to you, squire,” said a voice. 

Thereupon the owner of the voice came in, and stood attentive. 
He was a man of about forty-five, half-clothed in deer and otter 
skins, and holding in his hand a cap of raccoon skin. His face was 
ruddy, his figure stout, and he had an independent air, tempered 
by deference. He and Harley were evidently old friends, and their 
talk now was on the subject of hunting, and the proposed night- 
hunt for deer, to amuse St. Leger. 

5 * 


54 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“Ready when you give the word, squire,” said Puccoon. “But 
game’s gittiii’ scarce now.” 

“Why is that?” 

“Well, I don’t rightly know, squire, hut I have some idees. 
There’s somebody huntin’ all the time in the swamp.” 

“Ah!” 

“ Somebody who livqs there.” 

“ Lives in the swamp? Do you mean in the Black water? ” 

“Jest so, squire, and all I can do, I can’t get a near sight of him.” 

“ Rather mysterious, Puccoon. Who is the stranger, and what do 
you know of him?” 

“Well, all I know is that I have seen him mor’n once in his boat 
at a bend of the river, near the swamp, squire, and tried to git near 
him, and make out his look, but couldn’t.” 

“Hum!” 

“He fishes and hunts, and shoots half the deer, and somethin’ 
worse, squire, leastways somethin’ I like less.” 

“What is that?” 

“ He hangs around my cabin. Often, on a moonlight night, I’ve 
seen him go by in the bresh like a shadow, and in the dark, I can 
tell by my dog’s barkin’ that he is lookin’ through the window.” 

Puccoon knit his brows. He seemed refiecting. 

“ The thing is on my mind all the dime, squire,” he said. I’ve 
stopped laughin’.” 

“That is an unphilosophical proceeding,” said Harley; “but per- 
haps we may unearth your unknown tormentor. Some vagabond 
and' trespasser, no doubt, hunting game to sell. Be ready, Puccoon ; 
let us say to-morrow night. We will have a deer-hunt by torch- 
light, and will meet at your cabin. 

“ All right, squire. My service to you, and glad to see you back, 
squire — mighty glad.” 

Puccoon then executed a polite movement with his head, and 
retired. 

The night for the hunt came, and was as black as Erebus. Har- 
ley and St. Leger reached the cabin of Puccoon at nightfall, and 
every preparation was made. Fanny had just provided her father’s 
supper, and assisted him now by bringing his long fowling-piece 
and other accoutrements— a vision of loveliness which appeared 
strange in the rude cabin. 

As darkness descended, the three huntsmen entered the swamp, 
Puccoon leading the way over the devious and insecure paths of the 
bog. At every step the feet sank, and the boughs struck the faces 
of the party. But at the end of a quarter of a mile they reached 
firmer ground, and advancing more rapidly, saw the jungle open. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


55 


At the same moment a faint light appeared in the east , the clouds 
covering the sky were lifted in that quarter, and the moon, large, 
blood-red, and weird-looking, slowly rose above the delicate tra- 
cery of the cypress, leaves. 

Its light showed a singular spectacle. Through a vista in the 
u^lumps of black gum, with gnarled trunks scattered over the ex- 
panse in front, and between the towering cypress trunks, were seen 
the waters of a considerable lake, which must indeed have covered 
several hundred acres. They pressed on, reached the western shore 
of this body of water, and then a magnificent sight was seen — the 
bloody furrow made by the moonlight in the dark waters, which a 
breeze began to cover with ripples. 

Harley was looking carefully at the large expanse of water, with 
no idea more romantic than drainage in his mind, when Puccoon, 
who had carried with him a brand from his cabin, lit therewith a 
piece of “light wood,” — as the heart of a species of pine, heavy 
with combustible resin, is called, — and the flame soared aloft a huge 
torch. The party then followed the hunter, who plunged into the 
jungle again, pausing at each moment to listen, and waving his 
torch above his head. 

All at once he stopped short. 

“ Look, squire ! ” he said, pointing to the copse on the right. 
Two bright eyes, resembling stars, were seen stationary in the jun- 
gle. Harley touched St. Leger. 

“There is a good shot,” he said; — “a deer — you have his eyes to 
guide you.” St. Leger raised his rifle, fired, and a heavy body 
was heard bursting away through the vines, then they were torn 
and trampled; then the body was heard falling, and hastening to 
the spot, they found a full-grown stag, shot in the eye, and writhing 
in the death-agony. 

Puccoon drew his hunting-knife across the animal’s throat, 
twisted a cord around his hind legs, and swung him, head down, 
to a bough. 

“ Superb!” cried St. Leger. “ Your hunting is incomparable, my 
dear Harley ! Nothing like it I ” 

Puccoon grunted. That worthy was in an indignant state of 
mind. 

“The man of the swamp has nigh spoiled it!” he said. 

“Where is your friend?” said Harley. “I begin to think, Puc- 
coon, that you have dreamed all that story.” 

“ Look ! ” cried the hunter, quickly. 

Harley looked in the direction indicated, and saw, or thought he 
saw, a sort of shadow pass across a distant arm of the lake, and 
disappear in the deeper shadow of a clump of cypresses. 


% 


56 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“That is he!” said Puccoon, “the varmint.” 

“ I see nothing, said Harley. “ There was something yonder, but 
it was only a waving shadow, I think. Nevertheless, we will go 
and reconnoitre.” 

They proceeded around the lake to the spot where the shadow 
had been seen, but found nothing whatever ; and although the hunt, 
led them later to and fro through the swamp, no human being was 
encountered, no trace seen of any inhabitant. When finally, at 
dawn, they emerged from the swamp, after killing a number of 
deer, Harley had quite forgotten the shadow — in his eyes a mere 
vagabond poacher, if a real being, and not worthy of attention. He 
had indeed kept in his mind constantly his project of drainage ; 
had looked with satisfaction upon the. large open tracts covered 
only with bulrushes and a few inches of water, and had said to 
himself: 

“ Yes, I shall certainly clear this land. It is the richest part of 
my estate. I shall not reap the advantage, but my dear Sainty 
will.” 

“Well, you saw squire?” said Puccoon. 

“Yes; the loam is black and strong enough to bring anything.” 

Puccoon stared. 

“ I mean the man of the swamp.” 

“My dear Puccoon,” said Harley, “there is no man of the swamp, 
or if there is, he is a mere tramp, depredating upon a price of pro- 
perty from which I have derived no advantage. Let him hunt on ; 
he is welcome. I shall have to spoil his sport by clearing his ‘pre- 
serves;’ but meanwhile he may remain. And now, here is the 
cabin — there are the horses. You will bring out the deer, you say, 
Puccoon. Good-night ! ” 

Harley and St. Leger rode back to Huntsdon, and retired to rest, 
not spending another thought upon Puccoon’s unknown plague. 
The trapper had less success in getting to sleep. He sat down on 
the rude bench in front of his hut, supported his shaggy head with 
both hands, and grunted : 

“The squire don’t believe in the man o’ the swamp! But 7 be- 
lieve in the varmint. There’s goin’ to be trouble. A man ain’t a 
hound like me, not to know ’f game ’s dang’rous. I see him lurkin’ 
outside the torchlight! He was follerin’! Who is he? I ain’t 
found yit, but I’m goin’ to find ! ” 




CHAPTER XIII. 

AT BLANDFIELD. 

Judge Bland did what might have been expected — he invited 
Justin Harley to come and dine at Blandfield, with his friend, and 
meet his old acquaintances of the neighborhood. 

Harley would have refused, but it was impossible. He replied 
that it would give him great pleasure, and, on the day appointed, 
he and 8t. Leger proceeded in the Huntsdon chariot to Blandfield. 
A dozen gentlemen of the neighborhood met them ; cordially 
expressed their pleasure at seeing Harley at home again after so 
long an absence; welcomed Mr. St. Leger to Virginia; and, having 
performed this social duty, proceeded to the more important work 
of the day — dining. In Virginia this is a ceremony of some import- 
ance, since it is not eating, simply, but the interchange, in addition, 
of the amenities of friendly intercourse. When, at twilight, the 
guests rose, cheerful and philanthropic, from the excellent claret 
and the bountiful repast which had preceded it, the kindly and 
rational festivities of the day culminated. 

St. Leger had taken Miss Evelyn Bland in to dinner, and had 
made himself agreeable. They were now strolling over the sward, 
and talking — with much quiet laughter mingled with the talk — of 
England and Virginia. 

“Your friend Mr. Harley has just returned, I believe?” said 
Evelyn. 

“Yes.” 

“After a very long absence ?” 

“Many years; and now I suppose he will settle down and 
marry,” said St. Leger, “ though he does not seem to enjoy the so- 
ciety of your sex much. Miss Bland.” 

“ What a monster !” 

“ Is he not? But at least he never indulges in harsh or even cri- 
tical comments. For him women seem, simply, not to exist.” 

“Worse and worse, sir. We can endure anything sooner than 
indifference.” 

“Harley, I think, has had some disappointment, and he is the 
sort of man, with all his aflfectation of phlegm, to take such things 
au grand slrieux, Miss Bland.” 

57 



58 


JUSTIN HAELEY, 


“By which you mean, I presume, that a love-disappointment is 
not, in your estimation, so serious a matter ?” 

“ Why should it be?” 

“I reply by another French phrase, Mr. St. Leger — cela depend” 
laughed the young lady. 

“True; but what is so irrational as to break one’s heart about a 
woman? Now Harley is a thoroughly good fellow. No man was ever 
braver, truer, or more generous and whole-souled. Well, don’t you 
think. Miss Bland, that there is something quite unreasonable in a 
man of that description allowing his life to be wrecked for a pair of 
blue or black eyes?” 

“Yes,” said Evelyn, “and, if I were a man, I should not permit 
any woman to sadden me.” 

“Who knows?” said St. Leger, laughing. “Men always grow 
absurd when their feelings are involved.” 

“Is it your experience, Mr. St. Leger?” 

“Mine? Not in the least. I have never cared much for any 
woman in my life, and, if I were not conversing with a lady, should 
add that I don’t think I ever shall.” 

Evelyn laughed her low, musical laugh, and said, 

“ I shall repeat your own words, sir — ‘who knows T” 

St. Leger’s laughter echoed her own. He turned his head slightly, 
fixed his handsome eyes upon his companion, and said : 

“ I ask nothing better than to have some earthly angel make me 
care !” 

Miss Evelyn Bland cast her eyes down, pulled a late tea-rose 
apart, leaf by leaf, raised the long lashes, cast a flitting glance at St. 
Leger, and murmured : 

“ I fear it would be lost time for any one to attempt so hopeless 
an undertaking.” 

“Evelyn, my dear,” said the voice of Judge Bland from the por- 
tico, “ you must come and sing some of my songs.” 

And obedient to, though mourning over, the paternal request, 
Evelyn went in, sat down at the harpsichord, and her fine, fresh 
voice rose in serene sweetness above the political discussions on 
the portico. 

Harley and St. Leger stood near her, also two or three young gen- 
tlemen of the neighborhood who were among the young lady’s 
“killed and wounded” in numerous engagements. Harley found 
himself enthralled, in spite of himself, by the magical voice, and 
listened with avidity —for he was a passionate lover of music. A 
slight color came to his cheek, and turning, at the end of her song, 
the girl’s eye met his own, in an electric glance which said more 
than any words. 


JUSTIN IIAELEY, 


59 


Evelyn rose from the harpsichord, distributed a smile to the hap- 
less victims of her charms — namely, the gentlemen characterized as 
the “killed and wounded” — and went back toward the portico. 
Harley never knew how it happened, but a moment afterward the 
small hand was resting upon his arm, they were on the lawn, and 
she was saying, 

“ Do you know I have just been talking about you with your 
friend, Mr. St. Leger ?” 

The words were uttered with the gayest nonchalance, and Evelyn 
looked up into her companion’s face with a somewhat satirical 
smile. 

“Talking of mef” said Harley. “What can Miss Bland find to 
interest her in such a humdrum subject ?” 

“Humdrum! Tow, Mr. Harley?” 

And Miss Evelyn uttered a light laugh. 

“ You must certainly have forgotten all about rustic society, sir, 
and its weaknesses. Your return is an opportunity for gossip.” 

“That is not very flattering — is it? But I suppose I ought to 
regard it as a proof of your interest.” 

“ Of mine ? Well, I fear I am something of a gossip.” 

Her tone changed quickly, and she said : 

“But surely I should take an interest in Mr. Harley, since 
I owe my life to him. It frightens me to think of that terrible 
day 1” 

“ I would forget it. Happily we are both alive, and enjoying this 
fine evening.” 

Evelyn looked up at him. 

“Do you enjoy it?” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“And life, too? That may sound like a very singular question, 
but do you know what Mr. St. Leger says ? He says that some- 
thing has saddened you. But I am very intrusive.” 

Harley shook his head. 

“Your voice is too friendly and honest to appear intrusive.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Harley. I assure you I appreciate the compli- 
ment, and you encourage me to say still more.” 

“More?” 

“ To ask you a plain question.” 

“ Ask it,” said Harley, calmly. 

“ Why do you dislike our sex ?” 

Harley did not reply for a moment, then he said : 

“What reason can you have for attributing that feeling to me?” 

“Common report. Is the report so very untrue? You are said 
to despise us. Do you?” 


60 


JVSTIN HARLEY. 


The question was a home one, and it was impossible for Harley 
to evade it. He hesitated, his face became extremely sad, and he 
looked at his companion for a moment intently. He then said, in 
an earnest, almost solemn tone, 

“ Miss Bland, if you knew me better, you would know that I de- 
spise no one. I dare not. This conversation has taken a singular 
direction, and I find myself speaking of my own character and af- 
fairs. I will speak still more plainly, that there may be no misun- 
derstanding. My life has not been a very happy one, and I will not 
conceal the fact that an attachment formed when I was a young 
man is one of the causes of my gloom. This attachment was very 
strong, and — it was misplaced. For the person who — deceived 
me — I have, however, no bitterness or contempt, or any feeling but 
pity. I could not have. She has been dead for many years.” 

Evelyn’s head sank. The simple and earnest tones of Harley’s 
voice went to her heart. 

“ I am very, very sorry, I spoke of this. I did not mean — you 
must pardon my foolish and inconsiderate speech, sir.” 

“There is nothing to pardon. Miss Bland,” Harley said. “ I was 
aware of the reports in reference to myself and my sentiments, and 
would avoid them if I could. I am growing old, and as we go on in 
life, we crave human regard and sympathy. I am disenchanted, 
perhaps — it is my misfortune. The night is damp. Let us go in.” 

Evelyn permitted herself to be conducted to the house without a 
word. She had commenced the conversation in a tone of raillery, 
and with her most coquettish smiles — she finished by coloring, look- 
ing serious, and having nothing to say. And there was no oppor- 
tunity of rallying after her defeat. Harley reminded St. Leger of 
their proposed fox-hunt on the next morning, and they soon after- 
ward took their leave and rode homeward. 

“Your friend Miss Bland is really a beauty !” said St. Leger. 

“Yes— I suppose she would be regarded as beautiful.” 

suppose ! Come, my aged hermit, have you eyes in your 
head? There’s no room for supposition in so plain a matter. She’s 
a beauty — a fairy ! For that matter, everybody is handsome in Vir- 
ginia, I own, to the little girls in the huts of the hunters and trap- 
pers! Think of little Fanny! And now you give me a type of 
the other social class, in Miss Evelyn Bland— this wonder!” 

“You are enthusiastic.” 

“I am in love !” 

“ Then you will make me a good visit.” 

“ I certainly shall, if you’ll only be a good boy, and go back to 
Williamsburg with me, to look in on his Excellency, if he has re- 
turned, and procure a few articles of costume.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


61 


“ I will do so with the greatest pleasure, my dear St. Leger. Let 
us defer the fox-hunt, and go to-morrow.” 

“ So be it. I am away from the tiresome scenes of London: have 
no guard-duty to perform as a member of that odious company of 
Blues. I am a bird-of-passage, free to go or stay — am in excellent 
quarters, with deer-hunting, good dinners, bright eyes, an old friend, 
and my favorite occupation of doing nothing to charm me ; why, 
then, should I rebel against fate, throw from me the joy of life, and 
politely decline this most obliging invitation? I will not. I shall 
remain here for one month, at least! Let us eat and drink, without 
looking forward to dying to-morrow ! Let us enjoy ourselves, my 
friend 1” 

Harley actually smiled as he looked at the young man. 

“ You are a windfall, with your laughter, St. Leger, to a glum old 
fellow like myself. At your orders, my dear friend — we will set 
out for Williamsburg to-morrow.” 

“ Good!” 

“In the coach or on horseback? Which do you prefer?” 

“ Horseback a thousand times !” 

“ My own preference ; and so all is arranged. I can offer you a 
fine riding-horse, and the weather is superb.” 

An hour after sunrise, on the next morning, they were galloping 
toward Williamsburg, determined to lose no time, and return to 
Huntsdon on the same night. 



6 



CHAPTER XIV. 

A QUEER ADVENTURE. 

The two friends entered Williamsburg at full gallop, and stopped 
at the Raleigh Tavern, where they delivered their horses to a 
groom, and proceeded on foot to the Governor’s palace, an exten- 
sive edifice, in a park ornamented with Scottish lindens, with two 
guard-houses flanking the entrance to the grounds. Some men in 
uniform were lounging in front of one of these barracks, and St. 
Leger inquired if the Governor had returned. The man touched 
his hat, and replied, in an English accent, that he had not. There- 
upon the friends went back to the Raleigh, where St. Leger had 
taken up his lodgings on his arrival in Virginia, and having ordered 
dinner in his private apartment, the young Englishman proceeded 
to pack his travelling valise. A servant from Huntsdon was to 
take charge of it. These details having been attended to, the 
friends sat down to dine. 

The host waited upon them, or rather superintended the meal, 
in honor of his distinguished guests. He also joined respectfully, 
and with deferential cordiality, in the conversation. 

“We have not had the pleasure of seeing you again, Mr. Harley, 
since your arrival,” said mine host. 

Harley replied that he had been upon his estate. 

“ A very fine one ! I have passed your house, sir — knew your 
father : he was a very good friend to me. And Colonel Hartright, 
another good friend! — have you seen him of late, sir?” 

“ Not very recently.” 

“ I think he dropped something on his last visit.” 

“ Dropped something ?” 

“ A key, sir.’” 

And mine host drew from his pocket the small key which had 
fallen from Colonel Hartright’s waistcoat pocket, as he retired to 
rest after his conversation with Harley. The latter took it, and 
looked at it. 

“This was dropped, you say, by Colonel Hartright?” 

“Yes, sir; I am quite sure of it. This room was, as you will re- 
member, the one which he slept in, and it had not been occupied 
for a long time before. The key was found and brought to me, on 
the morning after he slept in it, and must be his property.” 

62 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


63 


^‘Well, return it, my friend.” 

“ I should like to do so ; but the Colonel never visits the capital.” 

I will take charge of it, if you desire.” 

“ I would be truly glad, sir,” said mine host, with a bow, deliver- 
ing the key to Harley as he spoke. 

“ I will send it to Colonel Hartright to-morrow.” It was slipped 
negligently into the speaker’s pocket; the dinner proceeded, and 
ended, and the friends mounted their horses amid the smiles of 
mine host and the hostler’s — golden smiles. 

“ Forward ! ” cried St. Leger. 

He put spurs to his throughbred. Harley followed, and they 
left Williamsburg as they had entered it, on a gallop. 

The sun was sinking as they crossed the broad expanse of James 
river on the large, unwildy ferry-boat, and sank from sight whilst 
they were still some miles from Huntsdon. 

“ Night will overtake us,” said Harley; “but I think I can lead 
you by a more direct road, which will shorten our ride a mile or 
two. This is the turn-in.” 

He led the way into a narrow road, debouching upon the main 
highway ; the road mounted a hill, plunged into a tract of forest, 
wound up another hill, descended, and conducted them to the 
banks of a stream, where a county -bridge had evidently stood, but 
was washed away. 

Harley stopped, looking rather blank. The stream was swollen, 
had heavily-wooded banks, and seemed impassable. St. Leger 
burst out laughing. 

“ See what comes of following a Jack-o’-lantern like you, Harley ! 
You are a perfect Will-o’-the-wisp, ignis fatuus, and misleader of the 
young ! I yield myself to your elderly guidance, and we are stopped 
by this torrent !” 

“ Bad enough,” said Harley. “ I thought the bridge was stand* 
ing. But we shall find a crossing.” 

He went along the bank of the stream, looking, as well as the 
darkness would permit, for some road or path, and at last disco- 
vered what seemed to be a track used by cattle. 

“ Here is our crossing,” he said. 

He pushed his horse into the stream, which only came to the 
saddle ; St. Leger followed, and they emerged on the opposite bank, 
and followed a path somewhat similar to the one they had first 
discovered. It led them deeper and deeper into the woods, wound 
on interminably, and at length, the adventurous and unfortunate 
travellers awoke to the consciousness that they were completely lost. 

“ Here’s a breeze of good fortune !— a pair of babes in the wood !” 
cried St. Leger, in defiance of grammar. 


64 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“An abominable blunder in me to leave the high-road,” said 
Harley. 

“Abominable!” echoed his friend. “You employ too mild a 
phrase! It was criminal — a breach of hospitality; a wanton be- 
trayal of youth and inexperience, confiding in supposed age and 
wisdom ! I am hungry. You are my host. Where is your boasted 
Virginia hospitality ?” 

“At Huntsdon, where we shall be, I hope, in an hour,” Harley 
said, smiling. “ I see a light yonder, and shall find from some one 
the road we ought to follow.” 

“A light ! Most joyful of beacons !” 

And the gay St. Leger pushed on beside Harley. They emerged 
from the woods, crossed a broad field, and soon found themselves 
near the friendly light. 

The light which had guided them issued from one of those build- 
ings of hewn logs used in Virginia for smoking tobacco, which is 
hung upon poles, stretching across, at the distance of several feet 
from the ground, above the fires. This tobacco-house Had evidently 
been disused, and a glance showed the travellers that a company of 
strolling-players — then not unfrequently met with in the colonies — 
had taken possession of it for the purpose of giving a rustic repre- 
sentation. Blazing candles were stuck up around the interior; 
a coarse curtain had been suspended across one end by means of 
pegs inserted between the logs; and a motley crowd of the plainest 
class stood gazing, with wondering eyes, upon the performers. 
A dancing dog, and a goat taught to walk upon his hind-legs, min- 
gled in a free and easy way with the performance ; and each new 
feat of dog and goat, or jest of actor or actress, was hailed with 
bursts of laughter. 

“ Well,” said St. Leger, “ things are growing romantic and inter- 
esting! Strolling-players! — tramps! Hen-roost thieves mingling 
petty larceny with the British drama for a living ! I am no longer 
hungry, my dear Harley: my interest is excited; my curiosity is 
aroused ; I propose to attend the performance !” 

St. Leger dismounted, tied his bridle to a tree, and went to the 
door, followed by Harley. They entered unperceived — the door- 
keeper having become the chief performer, in view, probably, of 
the fact that no other spectators were likely to arrive. 

St. Leger had entered, and Harley was on the threshold, with the 
full light of the blazing candles thrown upon him, when the woman 
who personated the main female character of the piece turned 
round, fixed her eyes upon him, stopped, turned white under her 
rouge, her eyes flashed in the pale face, as she stood perfectly mo- 
tionless, gazing at him. 





“ BHK STOOD PEj;F€:pTiyy MOTIONLESS GAZING AT HIM.”— P. 64 , 




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JUSTIN HARLEY. 


65 


Harley was nearly as pale. An expression of the utmost wonder 
had come to his face, and he looked fixedly at the woman. She 
seemed unable to sustain the look ; her breath grew short, and, turn- 
ing round, she said something to the manager, who rather sullenly 
ordered the curtain to be dropped. It fell quickly, and the sullen 
individual appeared in front of it. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “ I am sorry to state that the 
queen of the drama is taken suddenly unwell ; the performance can- 
not continue. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to bid you 
farewell !” 

Having made this superb announcement, the manager disappeared 
amid hostile murmurs, during whiqh Harley and St. Leger mounted 
their horses. A rustic individual, of whom they made inquiries, 
directed them on their way, and they were soon in a road with 
wdiich Harley was acquainted, leading to Huntsdon, which they 
reached about nine o’clock.. 

As they entered, St. Leger looked fixedly at Harley. 

“ What is the matter?” he said. 

“ The matter ?” 

“ You are as pale as ashes, Harley.” 

“Well,” said Harley, speaking in a tone of great agitation, “I 
ought to be. I have seen a ghost !” 

“A ghost!” 

“I am merely jesting; but no, I am not jesting in the least. 
I repeat, friend, that I have seen to-night, yonder in that miserable 
assemblage of tramps, a human being wdio I thought died many 
years ago. The explanation of all this would be strange ; perhaps 
I may tell you everything some day, but not to-night. I am moved, 
more so than I show, plainly as you must see my agitation. Yes, 
you shall know everything — all about me and my past life. I hate 
this mystery ! But not to-night 1 I am quite unnerved !” 



6 * 



CHAPTER XV. 

THE KEY AGAIN. 

Haeley came down the next morning perfectly calm and com- 
posed. He was the first to allude to the incident of the night 
before. 

“An odd adventure,” he said, quietly. “ I mean the encounter 
with our strolling-player friends. You see that it is not necessary 
to go as far as Bohemia or Hungary to megt with picturesque tramps 
and social Arabs.” 

“ Not in the least,” returned St. Leger. “ Your friend the actress 
was a singular-looking person — thin, pale, rouged, — but handsome 
once, I should say.” ^ 

“Yes.” 

“ You knew her, and thought her dead, it seems ?” 

“ Yes.” 

The tone of Harley’s voice was perfectly calm as he uttered this 
one word, and St. Leger looked attentively at him. The look was 
lost labor. Harley’s face was a blank, and he added, in an indiffer- 
ent tone : 

“ Every man has a romantic chapter in his life — something out of 
the ordinary routine. This person is the heroine of the chapter in 
mine. When I am more at leisure than at present, my dear St. 
Leger, I shall perhaps inflict upon you an explanation of all this. 
I am somewhat busy to-day. You say you propose to visit our 
good friends at Blandfield. I am going with Saunders, my manager, 
and Puccoon to examine the swamp, wdth a view to my draining 
scheme. I am afraid the work will be more difficult than I sup- 
posed. A competent person, whom I counted upon, in the neigh- 
borhood, and sent for, is hopelessly ill. I shall write to-day, to pro- 
cure, if possible, an accomplished engineer, whom I knew in 
Lincolnshire.” 

St. Leger quietly acquiesced in the change of topic. He was too 
well-bred to pursue the subject of the strollers and the woman, but 
he thought all the more for his silence, and was still busy with the 
problem as he rode toward Blandfield, after leaving Harley, who 
proceeded with Saunders toward the Blackwater. 

The young man spent a delightful day at Blandfield, listening to 
Evelyn’s songs, and what was equally dangerous, to her low and 
66 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


67 


musical voice. This young lady was by no means what we now call 
a flirt, but she had a native propensity to make herself fascinating, 
and use her large eyes as an artillerist uses his cannon — for the de- 
struction of the enemy, the said enemy being man. St. Leger, 
therefore, found the hours slip away very delightfully, thought his 
companion more and more charming, and it was something like a 
shock, and not an agreeable one, when Miss Clementina sailed in, 
agitating her fan, and looking apparently for a book. 

Evelyn then acted after the fashion of young ladies. She smiled 
sweetly, rose, had forgotten something, and glided from the room, 
Miss Clementina subsiding casually into a seat, and opening conver- 
sation. This conversation changed from the weather to the news, 
and from the news to Justin Harley, who must have been very 
lonely in his great house. Miss Clementina supposed, before the 
arrival of Mr. St. Leger. 

“ Necessarily, madam,” was the young man’s response ; “ and I 
have been giving him some good advice — to marry. Why has he 
never married ?” 

“Are you quite sure that he has not been married ?” said Miss 
Clementina, with her sweetest smile. 

“ Married ! Harley ! It is not possible !” 

“Well, I do not assert anything upon the subject, Mr. St. Leger; 
but there was some rumor to that effect once, was there not ? But 
you cannot know.” 

“ Married !” 

“ Now do not give me as your authority for any such report, 
I beg. I really know nothing about it. Poor fellow I I hope he 
was not.” 

“ Then you regard marriage as an undesirable state of being, my 
dear madam?” 

“ For women, at least, Mr. St. Leger. It is certainly the greatest 
blunder they commit. Don’t you think so ?” 

And having embarked in the discussion of her favorite subject. 
Miss Clementina grew animated, waved her fan with persuasive 
eloquence, and declaimed. She was still engaged* in this pleasing 
occupation, when Judge Bland came in and relieved the sufferer. 
The conversation took another direction ; the visit finally came to 
an end, and St. Leger rode back to Huntsdon, pondering upon the 
mysterious hints of Miss Clementina in reference to Harley. 

“Married!” he said to himself. “Was Harley ever married? 
I can scarcely believe it ; and yet that incident with the handsome 
actress is incomprehensible. Can she be Mrs. Harley f What an 
idea! And yet — humph!” 

St. Leger knit his brows and pondered. 


68 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“The worst of it is, I can’t ask Justin. How is it possible to go 
to a gentleman, at whose house you are visiting, and say, ‘ My dear 
friend, will you be good enough to inform me, for the gratification 
of my curiosity, whether you did or did not contract a marriage at 
one period of your life, with a fair lady, now become a strolling 
player, for the amusement of ploughmen in barns and tobacco- 
houses ?’ That would be a hUise, and decidedly low-bred ; that is 
impossible ! At present I am in a maze, and don’t know what to 
think. Harley says he will tell me everything some day. Until 
then — ” 

“ What are you muttering there, my dear St. Leger ?” said the 
voice of Harley. That personage had ridden close to him, on the 
soft, sandy road, unheard and unperceived. 

“ I am soliloquizing,” St. Leger returned, with a light laugh — “the 
weakness of great men, I am told. You have been to your Pontine 
marsh ?” 

“ Yes, and explored it thoroughly from end to end. The land is 
rich beyond words, and can be rendered arable.” 

“ Lucky fellow ! As a younger son, and consequently penniless, 
I look upon you with respectful envy. But your friend the poa- 
cher — the man of the swamp ?” 

“ I have ceased to believe in him.” 

“ You saw him, however, did you not, on that night-hunt ?” 

“ I thought I saw something ; but nothing is more deceptive than 
a moving shadow. A large fish swimming on the surface, and 
making a ripple, may have produced the illusion. It is certain, at 
least, that no one lives in the marshes. I went through the whole 
tract pretty thoroughly, with Puccoon and Saunders.” 

“ Well, the mind of the excellent Puccoon must be relieved. You 
saw his pretty daughter ?” 

“ Yes— a little beauty.” 

“ Is she not?” 

They were at the house. 

“What a castellated edifice!” said St. Leger, as they went in. 
“A door as big as a cathedral ; a lock as huge as a flagstone ; and 
look at that key I That was not made to be carried in one’s waist- 
coat pocket !” 

The words key and waistcoat pocket seemed to suggest something to 
Harley. He stopped, put his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat, 
and took out the key which the landlord of the Raleigh tavern had 
entrusted to him for delivery to Colonel Hartright. 

“ I had altogether lost sight of this,” he said, “ and must not 
forget in the morning to send it, as I promised, to Colonel Hart- 
right.” 


JUSTIN HAELEY. 


69 


On the next day he enclosed the key in a note of a few lines, ex- 
plaining how it had come into his possession, and sent it to Colonel 
Hartright. That gentleman returned his thanks in a communica- 
tion of similar length, which seemed to have been subjected to the 
process of freezing. 

Then Harley forgot all about the matter, to which he attached no 
importance. 

But the key was to unlock a curious dark closet in his life. 






CHAPTER XVI. 

AT THE END OF A MONTH. 

A MONTH after these scenes, Henry St. Leger was still at Hunts- 
don. The last days of autumn had come ; the splendor of the 
forests had faded to a russet brown, and the chill winds preluded 
winter. 

This month had brought about some unexpected events. St. 
Leger had gone now and then to Blandfield ; then more frequently ; 
then nearly every day ; and one day he came away with a decidedly 
melancholy and crestfallen expression of countenance, which plainly 
indicated a catastrophe. 

In fact. Miss Evelyn Bland had on that morning declined the 
young gentleman’s proposal that she should become Mrs. St. Leger, 
going through the ceremony of discardal with some blushes, and 
real regret at disappointing one whose regard she had come to 
value, as she enjoyed his society, but leaving no doubt of her in- 
tention not to think at that time or ever of his proposal. 

So St. Leger had come back in a far from cheerful state of mind, 
attempting to lajigh, but not succeeding very well. The first thing 
he did was to go to Harlej and say : 

“ Well, my dear old fellow I am routed, driven, cut to pieces ! 
The fair one has said no / ami I don’t think in all my life I ever 
heard that small word spoken in a way so unmistakable !” 

Harley’s face glowed, and something like a flash came from his 
calm eyes. 

“ You have addressed Miss Bland?” 

“Well,” said St. Leger, forcing a laugh, “I at least told her I 
loved her, and asked her to marry me.” 

“ And ?” 

“ She said no ! Hang it, Harley, if I were to take up the whole 
day discoursing and describing, I couldn’t convey the result of my 
attack more clearly. Charged with every color flying ; troops of 
all arms brought into action; drums beating, fife playing— the 
result ignominious discomfiture !” 

“ I am sorry for it,” said Harley, in a low voice. 

“Well, love is war!” said St. Leger, regaining some of his ordi- 
nary good spirits ; “ and war is proverbially an uncertain affair, mon 
ami— 3. good soldier is prepared for either event.” 

‘ 70 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


71 


“You take it cheerfully, my dear St. Leger. You are a man of 
nerve !” 

“ Why not ? All is lost ; but suspense is worse than the worst 
fate. I need all my courage, it is true. Battles are renewed ; the 
defeat of to-day changes to the success of to-morrow in war ; but I 
regret to say that I am unable to indulge any such dreams on the 
present occasion. I am definitely crushed ; can’t rally — having no 
reserves ! The fair one not only said no, but when I mildly inti- 
mated that she might change her mind — I could conveniently wait 
— assured me that she never could — begged me not to deceive 
myself; and she said that in a way so positive that there is nothing 
to do but to give the affair up forever !” 

Harley made no reply, but an hour afterward mounted his horse, 
rode out, as if to look at his estate, and having got out of sight of 
the house, set out for Blandfield. 

Evelyn was in the drawing-room, alone, when he entered, and 
turned away her head, in order to conceal what seemed to be a 
quick blush. Harley seemed not to, or did not, notice it, and 
plunged at once into the subject which he had come to discuss — his 
friend’s rejection. 

An hour afterward he was riding back toward Huntsdon, at a 
walk, refiecting. Evelyn had been perfectly explicit— as Harley 
had been perfectly unceremonious. She valued Mr. St. Leger as a 
- friend, and very highly, she said, but it was impossible that she 
could ever think of him for a moment in any other light. Would 
Mr. Harley spare her further allusion to what was a very painful 
subject? She must say again that any change in her feelings was 
impossible, and she trusted Mr. St. Leger w'ould spare her the pain of 
repeating this determination to him. 

Harley bowed, looked intently at the speaker, who was blushing 
and faltering a little, and went away. 

“Where have you been? Come — a bet!”. said St. Leger, trying 
to laugh, as Harley re-entered the drawing-room at Huntsdon. 

“ None is necessary, my dear friend, and I do not wish to conceal 
anything.” 

“ You have been yonder?’* 

“Yes.” 

“And there is no hope?” 

Harley did not reply. 

“ It is better to tell me. If you remain silent, I shall know there 
is none.” 

Harley did remain silent. 

“ Very well, my dear fellow,” the young man said, with some 
emotion. “ All is definitely over, I see, as I have told you, and I 


72 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


have my autumn romance to carry away in my memory to Eng- 
land.” 

“To England?” 

“ I must go in a week at farthest. My leave is exhausted, and 
his Excellency the Governor has returned, you know. Virginia 
has proved unlucky to me. What a comedy life is ! Well, as it is a 
comedy, let us try to laugh !” 

It was rather a melancholy performance, and Harley quickly 
changed the subject, urging his friend, without success, to defer 
his departure. 

“ Impossible, mon ami ! Duty calls ! In a week — one single week. 
One more fox-hunt to-morrow! It will bring back my good 
spirits!” 

And it did. St. Leger came back rosy, laughing, and thirsty for 
claret. Trouble sat lightly on this joyous temperament, which re- 
volted from gloom, and would see the sunshine behind the clouds. 
Harley was asking himself ruefully what he should do when the 
gay face of his friend disappeared from Huntsdon, leaving him to 
pass the humdrum days without society, when an incident occurred 
which changed the whole current of his life. 




CHAPTER XVII. 

WHAT THE KEY OPENED. 

“ Sir : Be good enough to come to Oakhill as soon as it suits your 
convenience, as I have discovered a document in the handwriting 
of my late brother, addressed to yourself, which I should prefer to 
deliver into your hands rather than to entrust to a messenger, inas- 
much as it is marked ‘ important.’ 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“Joshua Hartright.” 

Harley received this note one afternoon soon after his visit to 
Blandfield, and, informing St. Leger that he was called away upon 
business, but would return by nightfall, set out for Oakhill. 

. A paper addressed to himself by his uncle George excited his 
curiosity in a lively manner. This paper promised to explain — there 
was at least the possibility that it might — the meaning of the very 
singular words which had escaped from the lips of Mr. Hartright 
when he was dying, and would no doubt throw light upon the 
equally puzzling expressions of his letter to Harley at Vienna. In 
the paper now discovered, the “ something ” which Harley would 
give “ all he possessed ” to know, might be revealed ; and in a maze 
of thought, which ended always where it began, Harley galloped 
on, and reached Oakhill. 

Colonel Hartright met him in the drawing-room, standing, as 
usual, his gold cane in his hand, in front of the fireplace. 

“ Good day, sir !” he said, bowing stifiiy. “ I am gratified by your 
prompt response in person to my note.” 

“It was but common courtesy, sir; and another motive was 
added — curiosity.” 

Colonel Hartright bowed. 

“ I will explain in a few words how the paper alluded to in my 
note was discovered.” 

Harley listened with ardent curiosity. 

“ It was found in a closet in my late brother’s apartment,” con- 
tinued the elder, “ which the key you were good enough to return 
to me was found to open. This key, as you are aware, was taken 
from the hand of my late brother, after his death, received by me 
unconsciously, when Dr. Wills presented it to me, placed in my 
pocket, and dropped at the Raleigh tavern, in Williamsburg. The 

7 73 



74 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


subject was alluded to, you will remember, sir, on the day of the 
opening of my brother’s will, and the impression was left upon my 
mind at that time that the key might open some receptacle of 
private papers which my brother regarded as of peculiar import- 
ance.” 

“ The conclusion was a natural one, sir,” said Harley. “ It seems 
that such papers have been discovered.” 

“ One paper, and no more. I will proceed, if agreeable to you, 
with the brief narrative which I designed.” 

Harley inclined his head and was silent. Colonel Joshua Hart- 
right was evidently in his habitually testy state of mind, and never 
under any circumstances relished any interruption of the majestic 
flow of his discourse. 

“ When you were good enough to return the key,” he continued, 
stifily, “ I proceeded to discover, if possible, to what it belonged — 
whether to some desk, chest of drawers, trunk, or closet. It was 
found to fit no lock in the house, until I recalled what had escaped 
my attention for many years — a common closet or set of shelves in 
the wainscoting beside the fireplace in my brother’s sleeping-room, 
such as every house has, I believe, for securing silver or other valu- 
ables. This was opened by the key, and there I found this paper 
addressed to yourself.” 

Colonel Joshua Hartright went to his writing-table, opened a 
drawer, and took out the paper. It made but a small package, and 
might almost have been regarded as an ordinary letter. ■ 

“ I now deliver the paper into your hands, sir, in accordance with 
the direction of my late brother, which you will find endorsed 
upon it.” 

Harley took the paper, with an expression of strong interest. 
His eye fell upon the direction. At the top was the word “ Import- 
ant.” Beneath, “ For my nephew, Justin Harley. Read this alone.” 

Harley was about to tear open the paper.. His hand stopped. 

“ I am to read this alone,” he said. 

“ Such, I believe, is the endorsement,” said Colonel Hartright. 

Harley suppressed his curiosity, put the paper in his pocket, and 
rose, saying, 

“ I am naturally desirous of discovering the injunctions of my 
uncle, sir — this paper, no doubt, contains such — and beg to take my 
leave.” 

“ Do so, if it is agreeable to you, sir,” returned the elder, with a 
curt bow. “ I had proposed to so far intrude as to inquire in refer- 
ence to your future plans, which naturally interest me, in some 
measure, as I am your uncle ; but since you desire to terminate this 
interview abruptly, I beg you will use your pleasure.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


75 


Harley resumed his seat. 

“ It will give me pleasure to speak of my plans if you think they 
will interest you, sir/’ he said ; “ I can read my uncle George’s com- 
munication later.” 

“ If it be not an intrusion, then, sir, permit me to ask if you pro- 
pose returning to Europe ?” 

“I am quite uncertain, sir. My intentions have undergone a 
change in some measure.” 

“ Permit me to urge the desirability of your residence in Virginia. 
Your estate must require your attention, and the political relations 
of the colonies and the mother country are critical.” 

“ A controlling consideration, sir. , If there be a struggle, I shall 
take part in it ; on which side I scarcely need say — as Virginia, not 
England, is my native soil.” 

Colonel Hartright grew a little less stiff. 

“ A further intrusion, sir. You are said to design draining, or at- 
tempting to drain, that tract of marsh, the Blackwater Swamp.” 

“ Such is my intention.” 

“It is madness! — a mere chimera!” cried the testy old man, 
bursting forth suddenly. 

“ I must disagree with you, sir,” said Harley, formally, and rising 
as he spoke. 

“You disagree! That might be unimportant, sir; but the ex- 
pense will be enormous, and the money must come from incum- 
brances on— you understand, sir! — your expectations from— the 
Glenvale property.” 

Harley took his hat and gloves. 

“ I have no such design. You will pardon me for not entering 
upon that discussion at present, sir,” he said. 

“ But — it must be discussed, sir ! It — it ! — ” 

Colonel Hartright grew red in the face, and seemed about to ex- 
plode. 

“ Good day, sir,” Harley said, bowing ceremoniously ; and escap- 
ing from the room, he mounted his horse, and set out at a gallop 
for Huntsdon. He did not touch the paper all the way. Night 
fell as he arrived, and, calling for lights, he went straight to his 
chamber. 

Once alone there, he tore open the paper. . 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

WHAT MR. JIM HANKS WAS PREPARED TO SWEAR TO. 

At the moment when Harley reentered Huntsdon, with the paper 
which he was only to read w^hen alone, Evelyn Bland walked out 
of the front door at Blandfield, and strolling across the sward, 
reached a seat beneath one of the great oaks, from which she had 
a fine view of the tranquil landscape — the low grounds stretching 
away in delicate green, and divided by fences covered with the 
Virginia creeper ; the woods brown with the touch of autumn ; and 
the distant current of the James, tinted with the last rays of the 
setting sun, and dotted here and there with snowy sails, borne 
slowly by the light winds toward the sea. 

The young lady rested one arm on the rude back of the rustic 
seat, put aside some stray curls from her forehead, and the eyes, 
peeping out from beneath her chip hat, grew dreamy — absent. She 
was certainly thinking of something besides the landscape. Of what 
was she thinking? Of what does a young girl think in the calm 
hours of an autumn evening, under a great oak just touched by the 
dying sunset, when the twilight comes with wooing fingers to caress 
her forehead ? 

In the month that had just passed away, Evelyn Bland’s whole 
life seemed to have changed — she was no longer the same person. 
She had been gay, satirical, imperious ; a little beauty, spoiled by 
everybody, and resolute to domineer over every one who ap- 
proached her. In her eyes no spectacle had been so comic as the 
love-sick youths who brought their adoration to her little rosetted 
feet ; and she had found in all things something to excite her laugh- 
ter, to arouse her keen sense of the ludicrous, or to furnish food for 
her daring spirit of satire. Now, the former Evelyn Bland seemed 
to have quite disappeared. She had grown gentle, quiet, humble 
almost. She no longer tripped, flitted, pirouetted — she glided. 
Something had made the girl a woman in a single month ; and the 
woman sighed or smiled pensively were the girl had laughed or 
flashed forth her imperious satire. 

A face and a voice had effected all this — the face and the voice of 
Justin Harley, whom the young lady had begun by laughing at and 
ended by — ^loving. That conversation with her father, in which 
Judge Bland had spoken of Harley as a woman-hater, had made 
76 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


77 


Evelyn resolve, if she ever met him, to direct upon him the heaviest 
fires of her satirical artillery ; and their first meeting had taken 
place in the midst of the sullen waves of the Blackwater ! She had 
thus commenced her acquaintance with Harley under circumstances 
which, breaking down all the rules of etiquette, and paralyzing 
conventionality, gave her no advantage in the encounter. She had 
not dawned upon him as a young queen of the drawing-room, in 
lace, and pearls, and powder, gravely curtseying, and bending her 
proud little head, as the “ woman-hater ” was presented, formally, 
to her ladyship. He had seen her, first, a simple girl in a drenched 
riding-habit, -with dishevelled hair, and eyes filled with terror — a 
girl who had quite lost sight of ceremony, and clung around a man’s 
neck in the midst of a torrent, with no hope of life except from the 
man’s strong arm. The man had proceeded to save her life: had 
pinioned in his rude grasp the delicate hands, which she was 
accustomed to having kissed by sighing lovers — when, as a great 
favor, she permitted that attention — and enclosed her waist in his 
hard muscle, had asked no thanks, nor seemed to care for them. 

And what follows followed. The girl rode home thinking of the 
man who had caught her in his arms with that rude clutch, and 
dragged her back into life. She fell asleep thinking of him — saw 
him, and felt his arm around her again in her dreams; his face 
went with her — came back to her — grew upon her sight ; and the 
moment arrived at last when the utterance of his name made her 
cheek flush a little, and brought a sudden warmth to her heart. 
One day a gentleman of the neighborhood said that Mr. Justin 
Harley impressed him as cold, and stiflf, and even a little dull. 
Evelyn’s eyes flashed — it required the full force of her long silken 
lashes to hide the flash ! “ Cold ! stiff! dull I ” — this man with the 
charm of strength, of repose — of melancholy ! Who was so noble 
and stately? Who had eyes so calm, so clear, so unshrinking in 
their honest gaze? Who walked with so firm a tread, raised his 
head with such natural grace, or was more simple, unassuming, 
high-bred in every movement of his person? And to call Justin 
Harley “ dull! dull! ” 

It was the old, old story, you see, reader. We children of the 
pen go on telling it in the pages of our romances, year after year, 
and there is nothing to change — it is the same, the very same old 
story of all the years ! Evelyn had surrounded the image of the 
man who had saved her life with ideal attractions — thought of him — 
dreamed of him— grew a woman in a month— and calmly discard- 
ing St. Leger and another who chose this unfortunate moment for 
his suit thought of no one but of the person who did not seem to 
think at all of her — Justin Harley. 

1 * 


78 


JUSTIN HAELEY, 


“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Evelyn!” 

Evelyn started and looked round. There was the smiling and 
rather insignificant face of a feeble youth of the neighborhood, 
who had proceeded, two months before, to the audacious length 
of addressing Evelyn. 

“ A penny for your thoughts ! ” repeated the feeble youth. 

“ I was thinking of nothing — that would interest you, sir,” was 
the annoyed reply. It was frightful to have the feeble youth 
banish Harley from her mind ! 

“Well, I have been thinking of the mysterious Mr. Harley. 
Haven’t you been — lately ?” 

Weak youths have inspirations. This one was cunning — he had 
looked, and listened, and suspected, as weak people will. 

“Your question is an intrusion,” said Evelyn, with some hauteur; 
but the youth did not mind hauteur. 

“Oh! very well!” he said. “I didn’t mean any offence. The 
fact is — ahem! — well, to tell you the truth. Miss Eyelyn, people 
have been talking so much about this Mr. Justin Harley, that I 
thought of him.” 

“Well, sir.” 

“Now don’t look such daggers!” said the young man, in a tone 
of remonstrance. “ Can I help people talking of Harley ?” 

“No one has asked you to help it, sir.” 

“I declare you are provoked. Mr. Justin Harley seems to be a 
friend of yours, and the fact is, I wanted to ask you if there is any 
truth in this report about him ?” 

“What report, sir?” said Evelyn, ceremoniously. She would 
have liked not to have asked the question, but her curiosity was 
too strong to admit of that dignified proceeding. 

“ Well, the report is, that your friend, Mr. Harley,” — there was a 
satirical emphasis on the words italicised, — is married !” 

“ Married !” exclaimed Evelyn. 

“Yes.” 

“ It is not true.” 

“You know, then, something about our friend, since you speak 
so strongly. Have you never heard this report ?” 

Evelyn was silent: her mind was in a maze,. She had more 
than once heard Miss Clementina say, in her satirical tones, that 
she would not wonder if Mr. Harley had a wife somewhere ; he 
was melancholy from some cause, and an unfortunate marriage 
would explain everything ; but then Miss Clementina was a lady 
so exceedingly fruitful in suppositions of all descriptions, and had 
so vivid an imagination in suggesting explanations upon all occa- 
sions, that Evelyn had paid no attention whatever to these desultory 


JUSTIN IIAELEY. 


79 


conjectures. Now, however, the rumor of Harley’s marriage, and 
probable possession of a wife somewhere, had spread. It was 
retailed by the feeble youth : he was not sufficiently intellectual to 
invent it ; then he must have heard it. 

“Who told you that Mr. Harley was married, sir?” she said, with 
a little fading of the color in her cheek. 

“That’s not my secret. Miss Evelyn.” 

“ Aunt Clementina ? ” 

“ No ; she did not tell me.” 

Evelyn’s color faded more and more. She looked at the youth. 
Was he telling a falsehood? 

“Very well, sir,” she went on, with a sudden pang, as though 
some one had put a cord around her heart and was gradually tight- 
ening it : “ very well, sir ; as you do not wish to tell me who gave 
you your information, you may consent to inform me what it pre- 
cisely is ? ” 

“Oh yes,” said the feeble youth, who was as cunning as he was 
weak, “I can tell yon that! The report is — mind you, the report, 
for I don’t vouch for it. Miss Evelyn.” 

There he stopped. 

“ Of course, sir ! I understand,” she said, burning with impatience 
and yet shrinking from the rest. 

“ Well, the report is that Justin Harley was married when he was 
a young man, to a girl somewhere — not in this neighborhood— and 
that she is still living.” 

Evelyn did not make any reply. The color had quite faded out 
of her cheeks. 

“ People say she is now here— to claim her rights.” 

“ Here!” 

“ A strolling-player woman.” 

The feeble youth then proceeded to say, without noticing, or ap- 
pearing to notice, the pale cheeks of Evelyn, that “Jim Hanks” 
was at a play in a tobacco-house on Squire Thompson’s plantation, 
some weeks before, where there was a woman acting with some 
strolling players, and Justin Harley had lost his way, and came to 
tlie door. And then, when the woman saw him, she fainted, and 
Harley, whom Jim Hanks knew' well, looked as if he would faint 
too. He, Jim Hanks, had then heard the woman say, behind the 
curtain, 

“Justin Harley I — I thought he was dead ! Then I need not fol- 
low this wretched life any longer ! I will have my rights ! ” 

“ What do you think of that, now. Miss Evelyn ?” 

“I think it is a base felsehood ! ” said the young lady, in a low 
voice, and growing as pale as death. 


80 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Well maybe it is. Jim Hanks is a busybody, and may be lying ; 
but he tells a very straight story, and swears he heard the woman 
utter the words.” 

Evelyn rose. Her heart was bursting under the cord : she gasped 
almost. 

“ Well, sir — it is nothing to me ! — it is a falsehood ! I know that! 

I must go in now, sir.” 

They came to the house. 

Good evening, sir 1 ” 

She walked past him without looking at him, and went up to her 
chamber, closing the door behind her. 

The feeble youth looked after her, and grinned maliciously. 

“ I’d have made that up to see her look so,” he muttered. “ She 
treats me as if I was the dirt under her feet. Well — it’s a centre- 
shot this time. She’s struck ! Struck — the stuck-up my lady ! ^ 

And the best of it is, the whole thing is true. Jim Hanks can 
swear to the words !” 




WELL, SIB— IT LS NOTHING TO ME!— IT IS A FALSEHOOD.”— P. 80. 






1 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE CROSS-EXAMINATION. 

The feeble youth had just departed, overjoyed at the success of 
his plan to revenge himself upon Evelyn for her discardal of him, 
when the young lady, who had thrown herself upon a lounge in 
her chamber and buried her face in the pillow, heard the noise of 
horses’ hoofs on the ground below. 

The angelic portion of humanity are rarely so completely pros- 
trated by any emotion as to lose their curiosity. Let the apparently 
cynical but really sportive maxim be pardoned. Evelyn rose, went 
to the window, looked out, and saw, in the twilight, the figure of 
St. Leger, who, having dismounted, walked up the steps. 

A slight, short breath, like a sigh, came from her lips. Had he 
come to renew his hopeless and now annoying addresses ? Evelyn 
shrunk with utter distaste from the prospect of going through such 
an interview on this evening. Her heart felt cold, and a dull, apa- 
thetic mood possessed her. What could she say to Mr. St. Leger ? 
Why had he chosen this of all moments to come to Blandfield ? 

Should she send word that she was unwell ? Headaches are con- 
venient, and cannot be found fault with. Should she have a head- 
ache ? Yes — and Evelyn dragged her feet toward the lounge. Sud- 
denly she stopped. Her eyes were fixed intently upon the inoflTen- 
sive toilet-table, as though to stare out of countenance that useful 
piece of furniture. A slight color came to her cheeks. She went 
quickly to the mirror, proceeded rapidly to arrange her disordered 
hair ; affixed a blue riband and a string of pearls to her curls ; 
changed her dress, and went down stairs, where St. Leger was seated 
in the hall, talking with the smiling and benevolent Judge Bland. 

As Evelyn came down the steps, with a slight air of constraint 
which — habituated as she was to meeting unlucky youths after pri- 
vate interviews with herself— she could not suppress, St. Leger rose, 
made her a bow, smiled, and shook hands with her in the friendliest 
and most unconcerned manner — looking straight into her eyes as 
he did so. Evelyn never ceased, afterward, to be grateful for this 
proceeding, and declared that Mr. St. Leger had more savoirfaire 
than any one she knew ! 

“A pleasant evening for a ride, Mr. St. Leger.” 

Quite delightful !” 


81 



82 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


And that excellent, judicious St. Leger did not offer to walk out, 
or even proceed to the drawing-room, but sat down quietly, with 
Judge Bland present, politely drawing up an arm-chair, as he did 
so, for the young lady. He had evidently come to make a mere 
“ friendly ” visit, and conduct his conversation with Evelyn in sight 
and hearing of everybody. 

For some reason, best known to herself, this state of things did 
not seem to please Miss Evelyn. She played with the tassel of her 
girdle, tapped the point of her slipper upon the floor, and at 
length, in the middle of one of her father’s sentences addressed 
to St. Leger, rose quietly, strolled out upon the porch, began to 
train the tendrils of a Madeira vine around the lattice-work, and — 
waited. 

This proceeding resulted a few moments afterward in the appear- 
ance of St., Leger on the portico, but it was soon apparent that he 
had no intention of renewing the discussion of a certain subject, for 
he laughed, and had recourse again to the weather. In a moment 
all embarrassment had disappeared, and they were talking like old 
friends, and nothing more. 

“ I shall return to Europe next week,” he said, “and I am afraid 
this must be my last visit.” 

“ Keturn to Europe ! So soon ?” 

“ I really must.” 

“ I am very, very sorry !” 

St. Leger smiled, and replied : 

“ Ho you know I was certain of that ? Vain, you see ! But I shall 
regret it more than you can.” 

“ I do not know. I shall regret it a great deal.” 

“ I am flattered— no, I am delighted ! ” laughed St. Leger; “and 
Harley has looked so depressed since I announced my intention, 
that I begin to think he too will mourn over my departure.” 

“ I am very sure he will ; his house is so large and so lonely. 
There is no other person in his family, I think. What a singular 
person Mr. Harley is !” ^ 

Evelyn was approaching the subject so carefully that St. Leger 
did not for a moment perceive it. 

Well,^ he said, “ Harley is not what I should call a singular per- 
son, precisely. I should rather employ the word original. I know 
him thoroughly, and he is the best fellow I know.” 

“ I shall not discuss the character of your friend. You know him 
much better, of course, than I can possibly, but—” 

Evelyn played with the tassel at her waist. Her voice shook a 
little. 

“ You do not finish your sentence,” said St. Leger. 



I WANT A FRIEND TO-NIGHT— TAKE HY HORSE.’’— P. 83 . 








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JUSTIN HARLEY. 


83 


“ I meant to say that Mr. Harley has the reputation of being a 
“ woman-hater, and yet ” 

She stopped again. He looked at her attentively. 

“ Shall I speak plainly V 

“ Yes.’’ 

“ Mr. Harley is said to be married.” 

The word was uttered at last. It cost the young lady an effort, 
but she uttered it. A strange calmness had replaced her nervous 
tremor — the resolution to know. 

“ So that report has reached you too ?” said St. Leger, thought- 
fully. 

“ Yes. Is there any truth in it ? One likes to know, of course, 
whether one’s friends are married or single. And if you can tell 
me, without a breach of confidence, please gratify my curiosity.” 

St. Leger looked grave. 

‘‘ I am wholly unable to do so. Miss Evelyn,” he said. “Harley 
is not a confiding person, and has never spoken to me in reference 
to his past life.” 

“ That is certainly singular.” 

“ I have often thought so, and attempted to draw him out. But 
he has rqmained obstinately silent.” 

The nervous tremor again passed through Evelyn’s frame. She 
suppressed it, and said, easily, 

“ You have then been unable even to form any opinion upon this 
interesting subject ?” 

“ An opinion ? None whatever !” 

“ And have not even had your suspicions excited ?” * 

St. Leger was being pressed closely, and yet the tone of the young 
lady was so negligent and natural that he only felt a vague suspicion 
of her object. He was silent for a single instant, and then replied : 

“ You are a friend of Harley’s, Miss Evelyn. You could not allow 
anything to persuade you that there is a discreditable mystery in 
his life?” . 

“ Nothing could make me believe that !” 

“ I shall say, then, frankly, that once or twice it has occurred to 
me that possibly Justin Harley might have contracted, early in his 
life, an undesirable marriage, which circumstances prevented him 
from making public — one which perhaps he would like still to pre- 
serve a secret. There need not be anything discreditable in that.” 

Evelyn did not reply. 

“ Observe,” said St. Leger, “ that this is a mere theory— scarcely 
a conjecture.” 

“ Then you have observed nothing ?” 

“ Do not let us speak further of this, I pray you. Miss Evelyn.” 


84 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“ Certainly I shall not do so,” said the young lady, quietly. “ I 
have been induced to speak of Mr. Harley only in consequence of 
some strange reports repeated this evening by a visitor.” 

“ Reports ! Pray explain.” 

She repeated the gossip of the feeble youth, and St. Leger listened 
with grave attention. 

“ It is probable,” Evelyn added, “ that there is no such strolling 
company, and no such person — that the whole is a falsehood.” 

St. Leger knit his brows. 

“ Mr. Harley, it is said, was returning at the time from Williams- 
burg, and — why! you accompanied him, did you not, Mr. St, 
Leger?” 

“ Yes,” said St. Leger, finding concealment useless. 

“And the strollers ?” 

“ We encountered such a company.” 

“ And the woman ?” 

“ There was a woman.” 

“ Who seemed to recognize Mr. Harley ?” 

St. Leger found himself twisted in the net so skilfully thrown. 
Not to be able to deny, was to assert. 

“ There was some such scene as you represent,” he said, guard- 
edly, — “a mere apparent acquaintance — an unexpected meeting. 
I cannot further speak upon a subject involving a discussion, per- 
haps, that would be displeasing to my friend. Let us therefore 
amuse ourselves with some other topic. Miss Evelyn, and ” 

The tea-bell rang. St. Leger quickly ofiered his arm. Evelyn 
just touched it with her hand. She dared not approach nearer, for 
fear he should observe the beating of her heart ; and they went in 
to tea. 

After tea, the subject was not renewed, and St. Leger’s visit ended 
about nine o’clock. He took his leave, promising not to leave Vir- 
ginia without calling again at Blandfield, and having seen him dis- 
appear, Evelyn quietly glided up-stairs. There was a light in her 
room. She took it, and went to the mirror, holding it up, and look- 
ing at her face. 

“ I did not know I was so pale,” she said, in a low voice. “ I 
wonder if he observed it ?” 




CHAPTER XX. 

THE *VAGRANTS. 

St. Leger left Blandfield a little after nine o’clock at night. 

There are single days or nights in the lives of men which are 
fuller of incident than whole months at other times; and this 
night was to be fruitful in adventure to St. Leger. 

He rode a horse whose peculiar merit was a long, swinging walk, 
which carried him over the ground easily and rapidly ; and, going 
on now at this gait along the winding county road, overshadowed 
for the most part by tall oaks, and often descending into hollows 
where the darkness was scarcely dispelled in any measure by the 
struggling light of the full moon, the young man gave himself up to 
reverie. 

His conversation with Eyelyn Bland had again suggested to him 
the question whether Harley was or was not married. He went over 
in his memory every detail of the night-encounter with the stroll- 
ers ; recalled as clearly as possible the expression of Harley’s coun- 
tenance, the tones of his voice, his allusions on the next morning 
to the incident, and the most minute circumstances connected with 
the affair — asking himself, persistently, the question, “ Is he or is he 
not married ?” St. Leger was not actuated by mere idle curiosity. 
He had little of that itching, prying trait so powerfully developed 
in some organizations. His interest sprung from a sincere interest 
in Harley — and in Evelyn Bland. 

The young lady had played her part, during their recent interview, 
with skill, but she had not been able to conceal completely the sen- 
timent behind her questions. St. Leger had heard the almost im- 
perceptible tremor of her voice at last ; had /eft that she was aiming 
to extract something from him ; and the truth came to him suddenly 
— Evelyn Bland was more interested in Harley than she wished 
him to think. 

That complicated the matter terribly. If that interest — perhaps 
a dawning affection — for Harley existed in the bosom of Evelyn, 
and his friend were already married, a tragedy would soon be 
played. He would not believe that Harley could be guilty of the 
baseness of paying his addresses to a young lady w^hilst his vnfe was 
living ; but — but — “It is impossible !” he said aloud ; “ the whole 
thing is a dream !” 


8 


85 



86 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


But — and again St. Leger’s mind returned to the night-meeting 
with the strollers, to Harley’s agitation, to that of the woman, to 
the strange, vague rumors, and that expression attributed to her, 
that she would have her rights now. 

What could be the meaning of all this ? 

St. Leger knit his brow, and went on thoughtfully. He was now 
in the depths of a hollow, and sudden darkness descended like a 
pall. The moon had gone behind a cloud. It seemed in quite a 
different position in the sky. St. Leger looked round. He was lost. 
His horse, during his reverie, must have taken the wrong road, and 
he found himself in a spot which he was perfectly certain he had 
never visited before. . 

He emerged from the hollow, and as he did so, saw behind a 
clump of bushes a bright light, toward which he rode, hearing as 
he approached the sound of voices. A picturesque spectacle then 
presented itself. A fire was burning in a sort of hammock, beneath 
some immense cypresses raising their tall trunks, crowned with 
delicate fringe, into the darkness above ; and around this fire was 
gathered a motley crew, both male and female, eating, drinking and 
laughing, while a donkey, just unhitched from a small canvas- 
covered van or wagon, was munching some blue thistles on the edge 
of the circle of light. 

In the nondescript gang of Bohemians, St. Leger recognized the 
strollers met with on his night-ride from Williamsburg, and in the 
centre of the group was the manager who had let the curtain fall 
when the woman was taken sick in the tobacco-house. He was a 
jovial vagabond, apparently, with a twinkling eye, a coarse face, 
and a leer which seemed habitual. 

As St. Leger came into the circle of light, the vagabond turned 
his head. 

“ Who rides so late ?” he exclaimed, rising, striking an attitude, 
and spouting out his challenge : “Stand, or thou diest, base churl 
and prowler of the night !” 

St. Leger pushed his horse up to the group. 

“ What mummery is this?” he said, sternly. 

Instantly the vagabond doffed his hat, which was decorated with 
a huge feather. He had caught sight of the rich dress of St. Leger, 
and this, with the tone of the young man’s voice, probably pro- 
duced the conviction in his mind that the new-comer was some 
squire or justice of the peace, and, consequently, a dangerous per- 
sonage to be trifled with by vagrants. 

“ Ha ! ha ! — a blunder ! Pardon it, your honor !” 

“ Who are you ?” said St. Leger, briefly. 

“ Only poor players, may it please your honor.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


87 


He looked keenly at St. Leger. 

“ I have seen your honor once before,” he said, in a more natural 
tone, “ and you had another gentleman with you — something like a 
month ago.” 

“Yes.” 

St. Leger put his hand in his pocket, and threw some coins on the 
ground. 

“ We were at your play — there is for myself and my friend.” 

The vagrant quickly picked up the coin, bowing low. St. Leger 
was meanwhile looking keenly through the group. The woman 
with the pale, thin cheeks, and the rouge making them paler, was 
nowhere to be seen. The vagrant had followed the glance. 

“ Your honor is looking for Cleopatra.” 

“ Who is Cleopatra?” 

“ It is her stage-name. You saw her that night. She was taken 
ill.” 

“ Where is she ?” 

All expression of sullen ill-humor had come to the vagrant’s 
face. 

“ She has run away after binding herself to stay. I am ruined ! — 
ruined !” 

“ Then she acted well ?” 

“ Like a queen, your honor, — she did all the queens — carried the 
queen into life behind the scenes. A queer character— she was in 
the company, but would have nothing to do with us. Stuck up — 
would never take a part with the least joke in it, or where she had 
to show the point of her foot !” 

The recollection seemed to excite the vagrant’s indignation. 

“ A stuck-up piece !” he added. 

“ And she is gone !” 

“ Yes, your honor.” 

“ Well, I presume you might find her again among her friends. 
She will no doubt return to her family.” 

The vagrant knit his brows. 

“ There’s the rub, your honor. We don’t know where she came 
from. Picked her up on the highway, years ago, without so much 
as a bundle, her hair on her shoulders, and looking wild.” 

“ ‘ What’s the matter?’ says 1. 

“ ‘ Save me !’ says she. 

“ ‘ Are they after you ?’ says I. If so, get into the van, and I’ll 
see you are safe.’ 

“ So she got in the van, and that night we were twenty miles 
away, and I told her, ‘ in this company everybody that eats must 
work’; so she got to acting, but you could see she hated it, and 


88 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


was a real lady, for she would not stand a joke, and blazed out if it 
was tried, and held her head like a queen, your honor.” 

St. Leger reflected. The vagrant had given him a complete his- 
tory in a few words, and evidently had told all that he knew. 

“ What was the woman’s name ?” said St. Leger. 

Tlie vagabond shook his head. 

“ Don’t know, your honor.” 

“ A married person, do you think?” 

“ Yes,” said a girl of the troop, in a red petticoat and a blue bod- 
dice ; “ I saw the wedding-ring on her finger.” 

The speaker held up the third finger of her left hand. 

“ That’s all anybody knows about her — she never talked.” 

The vagrant manager scowled ferociously at the speaker. All 
these questions had ended by exciting his suspicions. Information 
was desired — information was saleable — any amount of it might 
be coined for the occasion ; and the girl in the red petticoat had 
defeated all ! 

St. Leger seemed, however, to have lost his interest in the sub- 
ject. He asked no more questions, and rode on. 

“ A fugitive — married — but was she married to Harley !” he mut- 
tered. “ The plot thickens — and the mystery too !” 




CHAPTER XXI. 

PUCCOON AND THE MAN OF THE SWAMP. 

It was now nearly ten o’clock, and St. Leger felt the propriety of 
banishing his possessing thoughts in reference to the unknown 
woman, and making his way, if possible, without too great a detour, 
back to the friendly roof of Huntsdon, where Harley was no doubt 
awaiting him and wondering at his absence. 

He followed the road which he was pursuing for the most excel- 
lent of all reasons — there was no other that had debouched into it 
since he left the camp of the vagabonds ; and yet he felt tolerably 
certain that he was wandering further and further out of his way. 
He came to this conclusion from the change in the character of the 
country through which he was passing. He had left the open fields 
and oak forest of the region along the bank of the James, and was 
evidently entering the swamp-country. The huge pedestals of the 
black-gum, surmounted by the slender trunks and dark berries, 
were seen ; with these were mingled the glossy-green, magnolia- 
like leaves of the laurel ; and the cypresses rose here and there 
from the heavy grass, like giants, lifting their tall forms into the 
night. 

All at once he heard the low, soughing sound of a stream, lost in 
the darkness on his right, and something in the appearance of the 
road before him was familiar. At the same moment a light 
twinkled from a wooded hollow, and he stopped, looked round, 
and muttered, 

“ I know this spot, or think I know it.” 

He^ had checked his horse, whose footfalls had made no noise on 
the sandy road, and stood for some minutes silent in the shadow 
of a large laurel. He was struggling to make out his whereabouts. 
The moonlight was but a slight guide, and only appeared at inter- 
vals. Whilst trying to recognize the locality, he saw a shadow fall 
upon the road in front ; the moon came out suddenly, and a man 
passed across the road and disappeared. 

He had come and gone like a shadow ; and yet St. Leger made 
out these particulars — he was of medium height, sinewy and pow- 
erful, carried a short carbine, was clad in fur, and had the stealthy 
tread and crouching neck of the huntsman or of the criminal — of 
the man in pursuit of wild animals or of the hunted outlaw. 

8 * 89 



90 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


St. Leger was still looking after him, and speculating upon the 
subject of his presence, when a shot was heard from the direction 
of the light in the hollow ; the hoarse bay of a hound followed, and 
this was succeeded by the abrupt appearance of a man, who burst 
through the thicket, and stood suddenly in the road, grasping a 
long rifle, which was still smoking. 

St. Leger recognized Puccoon. 

“ What’s the matter ?” he said. “ You fired.” 

Puccoon started and turned round. At a glance he recognized 
St. Leger. 

“What is the matter, friend?” replied the young man. “You 
are not hunting — I see that.” 

Puccoon bent his head and listened. The bay of the hound was 
receding. 

“ The matter is, squire,” he said, in a gloomy voice, “ this man 
will be my death.” 

“What man?” 

“ The man o’ the swamp.” 

Puccoon’s eyes were distended. St. Leger might have smiled at 
this agitation, regarding the whole matter as a mere delusion, but 
he had himself seen the foe of Puccoon — the man of the carbine — 
and told the trapper now of the encounter. 

“ I knowed it, squire ! I knowed it. He’s been a ha’ntin’ me 
this month past worse. than ever, and I can’t sleep in my bed for 
thinkin’ and dreamin’ of him. That’s what’s the matter. I’m 
gittin’ sick. I’m wastin’ away. He’s a hangin’ round my cabin 
every night, and I hearn of him near by in the day when I’m off 
tendin’ to my traps.” 

“ Who is this man, Puccoon ?” 

The trapper shook his head. 

“All I know,” he said, gloomily, “ is, he’s the man o’ the swamp.” 

“ And he came again to-night ?” 

“ Yes, he did, squire. I was settin’ mendin’ my nets, when I felt 
him in the bresh. Well, I called Otter— that’s my hound. Then I 
put my hand on his head, and made him lay down, and I waited. 
It wasn’t long before I heard Mm. He was in the bresh. He was 
lookin’ at me. I catched up my rifle, and set Otter on, and fired 
at the noise, but I didn’t hit nothin’. He’s gone.” 

Puccoon spoke in a low tone. The secret prowler had evidently 
come to be regarded by the trapper as a supernatural being. He 
looked upon him with superstitious awe. 

“ Listen, squire,’.’ he whispered, “ I fired at him this time with a 
silver hullet. I beat it round myself. I never hit him. He can’t 
be hit !” 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


91 


St. Leger saw that it was utterly impossible to argue with Puc- 
coon on the subject of the man of the swamp, in whom he fully 
believed now, himself, and abandoned the attempt, advising the 
trapper to put out his fire and all lights, bar up, and sleep. 

“ I will, squire,” said Puccoon ; but I’ll wake.” 

“Wake !” 

“ He’ll be back here to-night.” 

St. Leger combated this as improbable, and then explained his 
presence, at which Puccoon evidently wondered. He would get 
back to Huntsdon, he said; and bidding the trapper good night, 
followed the bye road, with which he was acquainted. 

Puccoon had gone back, moodily shaking his head, toward his 
cabin. 

An hour afterward St. Leger saw the great oaks of the Huntsdon 
grounds defined against the sky. 

He entered the gate, went along quietly beneath the broad 
boughs, heavy with brown leaves, and drew near the house. 



. .j 



CHAPTER XXII. 

THE WOMAN. * 

St. Leger stopped for a moment beneath one of the great oaks to 
enjoy the picturesque spectacle of the Huntsdown house, sleeping 
in the vague chill moonlight. The building was more than ever 
imposing in the weird light ; the shadows of the wings took fantas- 
tic shapes, and the long facade, with its rows of windows, its large 
portico, and its heavy substantial look, produced the impression 
on St. Leger of some feudal castle, fitted up as a modern dwelling. 

In a single room a light was burning. This was the chamber in 
which Harley slept, and as St. Leger had more than once observed 
the light, at late hours, when he knew that Harley was asleep, he 
paid no attention to it. It should be added here, however, by 
way of explanation, that the young Englishman once or twice 
asked his friend, in a jesting tone, if he was afraid of ghosts, to 
which question Harley had responded with great coolness that he 
was not. Everything in this world was a matter of habit, he said, 
and one of his habits — a bad one, perhaps, as it excited attention — 
was to sleep with a light burning throughout the night. 

St. Leger enjoyed the spectacle of the great house in the dim 
moonlight; but the lateness of the hour admonished him that 
it was time to wake the groom, who was always in attendance, 
give his horse in charge, and retire. 

He was about, therefore, to ride out of his place of concealment, 
when, chancing to turn his head toward the right wing of the 
house in which Harley’s light was burning, he saw the figure of a 
woman come out of the shadow of the oak, whose boughs brushed 
up against the walls, and look up to the light. 

It was impossible for St. Leger afterward to explain why, but 
from the first moment he knew that this woman, who was dressed 
in black from head to foot, was the same whom he and Harley had 
met, on the night when they lost their way, in returning from 
Williamsburg— the same of whose flight the vagrant manager of 
the strollers had complained — the woman, in a word, whose past 
life seemed connected in some strange manner with the life of his 
friend. What brought her now at midpight to Huntsdon ? What 
was her object? Did she come to have a private interview "with 
Harley, and was she waiting for him to keep his appointment? 

92 


JUSTIN JIAliLEY. 


93 


St. Leger felt, at sight of this woman, a sentiment of gloom and 
oppression — all this mystery puzzled him, and he was casting 
about for some means of gaining the house without meeting the 
woman, when a low thunder resounded through the mansion. 

It was the great clock in the hall slowly striking the hour of 
midnight. 

As the sonorous strokes resounded, one by one, in the profound 
silence, they produced a singular effect upon St. Leger’s feelings. 
Something solemn, superstitious, awful, spoke in these measured 
beats of the hammer on the bell. It was time passing steadily, 
inexorably, to the moment of some unknown catastrophe. The 
woman in black remained perfectly motionless in the moonlight. 
The last stroke died away, and there came, like an echo, the neigh 
of a horse from a spot beneath one of the oaks where Harley had 
the fancy always to dismount when he returned from riding. 

St. Leger did not move ; lost in the shadow, he listened intently, 
with a strange feeling that something was about to take place. 

Tlie neigh of the horse had just replied to the last stroke of the 
clock, when the front door of the mansion opened, a figure came 
out, booted and spurred— for the chains of the spurs rattled on the 
flags — and St. Leger clearly made out the tall, erect, and proud- 
looking form of Harley. He came down the steps, walked along 
the gravel road toward the spot from which the neigh of the horse 
had been heard, and passed within a few feet of the woman, who 
had quickly retired at his appearance beneath the shadow of the 
oak, behind whose trunk she probably concealed herself. 

St. Leger remained motionless. What was the meaning of all 
this ? Why had this woman come thus under cover of darkness 
to the grounds of Huntsdon, and on the appearance of the master 
of the mansion, concealed herself from his eyes ? The young man 
was lost in astonishment, and was only aroused by the rapid 
hoof-strokes of Harley’s horse as he went down the hill. 

St. Leger did not see the woman, and she did not again make 
her appearance. The shadow had blotted out her figure. 

As to Harley, he had ridden down the hill at a gallop, and passed 
through the gate. The footfalls of his horse were then heard on 
the road beyond, and from the direction of the sound, w'hich 
steadily receded, St. Leger knew that he was going toward the 
Black water Swamp, over the same road which he himself had 
followed in returning from the vicinity of Puccoon’s cabin to 
Huntsdon. Five minutes afterward the sounds had died away, 
and no noise interrupted the stillness of the night. 

The moon soared aloft, pouring down its light in solemn splendor, 
and the night wind only murmured in the great trees. No trace 


94 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


of the woman was seen. She had evidently gone into the depth 
of the park, and sought some hiding-place. 

St. Leger touched his horse with the spur, rode to a side door, 
where he waked the sleeping hostler, gave his animal in charge, 
came back to the front door, which he found unlocked, and 
entered. 

“ A queer night !” he muttered, as he went to his chamber. “ I 
begin to think that my good friend Justin Harley does not speak 
of his past life because silence is best. Where has he gone? 
Who is this woman? What does all this mean? By heaven! 
“ I’ll not leave Virginia until I discover ?” 




CHAPTER XXIII. 

Harley’s ride in the storm. 

Let us follow Harley. 

Half an hour after his departure from Huntsdon, the moon dis- 
appeared behind a heavy cloud, the wind began to rise, and soon 
the low mutter of thunder was heard, preluding a storm. Light- 
ning followed, dividing the murky mass like a serpent of fire, and 
then the rain began to fall, lashing the world with its fury. A 
heavy, continuous, unintermitting torrent roared down, bowing 
the tallest cypresses, driving into the eyes of wayfarers, and 
blinding all who were exposed to its rage. 

Harley rode on without paying the least attention to the fury of 
the tempest. He seemed to be possessed by a single thought — 
that it was necessary to keep an appointment with, or to make 
some communication to, some person, which person seemed to live 
in or near the Blackwater Swamp. The rain was still descending 
in torrents when he found himself in the vicinity of Puccoon’s 
hut. He checked his horse. The animal tried to turn his back to 
the storm, and shelter his face, at least, from the driving gusts. 
But Harley did not seem to notice it. He lowered his head — that 
w'as all — and evidently reflected. 

■ “ I will not take Puccoon,” he muttered, “ but I will leave my 
horse in his charge.” 

And riding rapidly up the hollow, he stopped at the trapper’s 
hut, and hallooed. Puccoon was asleep, but the sound soon woke 
him. 

“ Who is there?” he said, coming to the door, and rubbing his 
eyes. 

Harley dismounted. 

“ Puccoon,” he said. 

“ You, squire !” 

“ Yes.” 

Puccoon again rubbed his eyes. 

“ I want a friend to-night. Take my horse. I am going where 
I am going on foot. Keep my horse until I return.” 

Puccoon took the animal by the bridal in a dazed way. 

“ Yes, squire.” 

Then he recovered the use of his faculties. 


95 



96 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Where are you going ?” 

The rain dashed in his face, but he did not seem to feel it. 

“ I am going into the swamp,” said Harley. 

“ Into the swamp !” 

“ Yes.” 

Puccoon’s countenance assumed an imbecile expression. He 
shuddered, after his fashion — that is, he shook. 

“ Don’t squire !” he said. 

Harley buttoned up his coat. 

“ Why not?” he said. 

“ The man o’ the swamp is there.” 

“ Well,” said Harley, composedly, “ that is the exact person I am 
going to see. I am in pursuit of the man of the swamp.” 

Puccoon’s eyes resembled saucers. 

“ You will not find him 1” 

“ You are mistaken.” 

You tried, and couldn’t.” 

“ I know that.” 

“ And you think, squire ?” 

“ That I shall be more successful now ? Yes, I know where I am 
to look for him, and mean to go straight to the spot. I can even 
tell you before I set out where he lives.” 

“ Squire !” 

“ Speak quickly, Puccoon, I am in haste. It is nearly one 
o’clock, and I have many things to discuss before morning witli 
the man of the swamp.” 

“ You I” 

« j » 

“ You say you know where to find him ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Squire ! I have shot at him to-night.” 

Harley lowered his head to protect his eyes from the storm. 

“ Then he has been lurking around again ?” 

“ Yes. But that is nothing. You are joking, squire ! You are 
not going to see the man of the swamp ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You will not find him, I say !” 

“ I will find him.” 

“Where ?” 

“ In his house.” 

“ His house !” 

“ On the southern bank of the lake, where the outlet to the 
Blackwater runs around an island covered with black gum, with 
one laurel in the centre, and three cypress trees growing within a 


JUSTIN HAHLEY. 


97 


few feet of each other. Under the cypresses there is a knoll, 
covered with sod. This sod is the roof of a house. The house 
is that of the man of the swamp.” 

Harley spoke in a tone that was almost gay. His face glowed, 
as it had done throughout the conversation. He did not seem 
to perceive the storm. / 

“ Who told you that ?” exclaimed Puccoon. 

“ A dead man,” returned Harley. 

“ I am going there !” he added ; “ I shall leave my horse here. 
You may expect me back at daylight.” 

Puccoon led the horse quickly to a shed behind his cabin, which 
afforded some shelter. He then came back promptly, and reach- 
ing inside his door, pulled out his carbine and his fur cap. 

“ Really, squire !” he said. 

Harley shook his head. 

“ No, you cannot go with me. I have business with the man of 
the swamp which will not admit of the presence of a third person. 
Stay here.” 

“ Squire ! You are as good as a dead man if you go by yourself! 
How you have found out about this devil, and where he lives, 
I don’t know; but I know you are risking your life to go by 
yourself!” 

“ That’s my business.” 

“ Squire !” 

“ I have no time to talk with you now,” said Harley. “ Remain 
here. What is your man of the swamp, that I should fear him? 
Am I not a man, and what is he more than that ? Good night !” 

Harley wrapped his coat closely around him, pulled his hat over 
his face to protect his eyes from the storm, and turning his back 
upon Puccoon, set forward, walking rapidly in the direction of the 
swamp, in whose somble depths, now lashed by the tempest, he 
disappeared. 

As he did so, the old clock at Huntsdon, miles away, struck, 
solemnly. 

“ One !” 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

IN THE SWAMP. 

Harley entered the Blackwater Swamp at the point selected by 
Puccoon on the night of the deer-hunt. 

He had no difficulty in finding his way. The rain, -which had 
rushed down with such impetuous violence, gradually exhausted 
itself, and the clouds slowly drifted away, permitting the moon to 
shine out at intervals ; thus Harley was able to advance upon his 
way with something to guide him. 

To penetrate a morass at night, with only the dim light of the 
moon, wading in and out amid ebon clouds, to guide you, is not an 
easy undertaking. If any one doubts the statement, let him make 
the attempt; Every bush is an obstacle ; every pool is a snare ; the 
firm grass that you put your feet upon without hesitation is slime, 
and the puddle you disregarded is a quagmire up to your waist. 

Harley was, however, an experienced huntsman — that is to say, 
he knew how to pick his way, and was not deceived by ap- 
pearances. He went on with an assured step, and threaded 
the labyrinth of this “ Pontine marsh ” with the skill of a man 
thoroughly experienced in woodcraft, and reached without difficulty 
the northern shore of the large body of water which had presented 
so picturesque a scene on the night of the deer-hunt. 

At this moment, with the moon drifting through the black clouds, 
and shining in and out, the scene was wilder and more striking. 
There is something weird and sombre in these still masses of water, 
unstirred by winds, in the centres of the great swamps of Virginia. 
You read of them in books, and can form no conception of them. 
The waters sleep, dark and still. The pond-lilies wave on the sur- 
face, and huge festoons of vines droop above. On that surface, still 
and solemn, the chance-gleam of sunlight or of moonlight shim- 
mers— a ghostly charm. Far off, you see the fringe of green, edging 
the water, or the marshy tracts overgrown with reeds and aquatic 
plants. The day scarcely penetrates these jungles. Night and 
mystery seem to reign. 

Harley stopped and looked around him. He was not thinking 
now of drainage. The sombre and forbidding beauty of the scene 
enthralled him. The large body of water — some hundreds of acres 



JUSTIN HARLEY, 


99 


in size — slept in the moonlight, disappearing and then reappearing 
as the clouds drifted; and the cypresses assumed mysterious 
shapes — the laurel and juniper rose, like inanimate wardens of the 
mai-sh, and its secrets. The scene was wild and impressive, but 
not deficient in beauty, such as a painter would have rejoiced in. 
Against the moon, which now grew bloody in hue as it descended 
toward the west, the tracery of the great cypress summits was 
defined with exquisite delicacy, and the laurel leaves threw back a 
sheen as brilliant as that which darts from the piled-up foliage of 
the magnolia. Over all fell a dreamy and dusky splendor. The 
swamp, washed by the rain, was in all the glory of its strange 
attraction. 

Justin Harley had stopped, in spite of himself — taken prisoner 
by the weird influences of the scene. But he had plainly come 
with another intent than to look at landscape beauties or indulge 
in dreams. He went on with a resolute step, circling the lake on 
the western side. Beaching a point on the southern bank, he 
looked round him. 

The large body of water here had an outlet — that which Harley 
had referred to in speaking to Puccoon. The ground, indeed, fol- 
lowed the general inclination of the surrounding country, and at 
this place the lake had furrowed out a channel through which its 
surplus waters were discharged into the Blackwater river. Harley 
stood still for an instant, looking about him. A glance showed him 
that he had reached the outlet. But in spite of his most careful 
examination he could perceive nothing in the shape of an “ island.” 

There was nothing to be done but to go on. He resolutely 
plunged once more into the thick jungle. His progress, difiicult 
before, became now almost an impossibility. Twice he sank to his 
waist in the treacherous waters, and only dragged himself out by 
main force. Then suddenly a broad and apparently impassable 
body of water stretched in front of him. He was compelled to 
make a detour. Breaking through the dense jungle, he at last 
reached the upper shore of this piece of water. But a stream, if it 
could be so described, ran into it, and Harley was compelled to 
ascend this stream in search of a crossing. 

When he found what seemed to be used as a means of passage— 
for the vines were pulled down at the spot— he hesitated before 
venturing. The frail bridge was a cypress-trunk, long, slender, ta- 
pering, shooting straight across from one bank to the other, many 
feet above the lagoon beneath, without any support for the hands 
of a person crossing. To attempt the passage of this natural bridge 
in the half-darkness was a desperate undertaking; but Harley had 
determined to accomplish his object, and resolutely ventured on 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


100 


the tapering trunk. His woodcraft and skill served him well. 
Foot by foot he made his way, reached the opposite bank, and 
following a nearly imperceptible path, again entered the jungle. 
The path wound to and fro, avoiding everywhere the treacherous 
pools, and following the firmer ground. The jungle opened, the 
path grew firmer, and Harley saw before him once more the main 
outlet of the lake, and in the middle a small island. 

In the centre of this island grew a magnificent laurel — a glossy 
cone of deep, rich green. Near it three cypresses raised their 
fringed summits above the swamp. 





CHAPTER XXV. 

UNDER GROUND. 

The difficult point to determine now was by what means he 
could reach the island. 

He looked up and down, endeavoring to find somewhere in the 
thick brushwood skirting the banks some indication of a crossing- 
place, knowing that if he could discover such, he would probably 
find a boat not far off. There was none. The gum and laurel 
lined the whole margin in an unbroken, mass, and before him 
stretched the dark waters of the outlet to the lake, sullen, forbid- 
ding, unfathomable, you would have said, so black did the surface 
appear. 

Harley hesitated only for a moment. 

“ It seems I am to swim !” he muttered. “Well, so be it.” 

He buttoned his coat, already drenched by the storm, up to his 
chin, leaped from the bank into the water, and wading where he 
could, swimming where he was compelled to do so, reached the 
island. 

It was of small extent, and nearly overgrown with a dense mass 
of reeds and water-plants. To even gain a foothold upon it was a 
difficult matter; but Harley managed to land, and taking advan- 
tage of a path apparently used by otters or muskrats, made his way 
into the jungle. 

It was rather crawling than walking. The reeds leaned across 
the path, and shut out the struggling moonlight above. As he 
went on, he heard weird noises, and the owls laughing in the depths 
of the swamp were replied to by the whip-poor-wills, uttering from 
moment to moment their melancholy cry. In spite of himself, 
Harley was affected by his lugubrious surroundings. There was 
something wild, weird, depressing, in this mournful marsh, where 
nothing was heard but these nocturnal cries; and the cypresses, as 
the moon flitted through the clouds, resembled goblins bending 
above him and ready to seize him by the hair and carry him off. 
He was naturally brave, but at the hiss of a snake, upon which he 
trod, Harley shuddered. 

Suddenly he emerged upon an open space, and saw before him, 
beneath three cypress trees, a grassy knoll. In the side of this 

9 * 101 



102 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


knoll a glimmer was seen. Harley had said to Puccoon, “ Under 
the cypresses there is a knoll covered with sod. This sod is the 
roof of a house. The house is that of the man of the swamp.” 

The glimmering light in the side of the mound dispelled all 
Harley’s doubts, if he still had any. He had reached the end 
of his journey, and now advanced toward the light with a firm 
step. 

Kneeling on one knee, he put aside some trailing vines, and 
glanced through the aperture letting out the light. The interior 
which met his glance was unique. It was a sort of den you would 
have said that of a wolf — scarcely eight feet in width and six feet in 
height. A rude fireplace of stone was on one sid6, and there were 
some brands blazing in it ; they caused the light. On one side was 
a rude bed, covered with a coarse blanket. In the middle was a 
table and chair ; a man was seated at the table, leaning his fore- 
head on his hands. From the appearance of his shoulders, it was 
evident that he was sinewy and powerful. Leaning against the 
table was a carbine. 

Justin Harley took in these details at a glance, and a strange ex- 
pression came to his fiice — an expression of unmistakable joy. His 
eyes glowed ; his lips smiled ; he drew a long breath, and rose to 
his feet again, looking around him for some opening by which he 
could make his way into this wild beast’s den. 

As he rose from his knees, the man, either weary of his position, 
or hearing some noise, raised his head from his hands. This 
head was a singular one. The hair was grizzled, although the 
man did not appear to be more than forty, and the shaggy mass 
nearly covered his eyes. The face was more singular still- 
cunning, ferocious, the face of a wild beast, but an educated wild 
beast, for there was in it a debased and brutalized intelligence. 
The eyes glared, but it was the glare of intellect lowered to the 
level of the brute. 

The brute instinct was there, too, with the brute look. Some- 
thing seemed to tell this human wild beast that danger was near. 
He rose, looked with a piercing glance toward the window, and 
took two steps toward the low door of cypress wood, ordinarily 
secured by a chain, which now hung down beside it. 

Before he could reach the door, it opened, and Harley appeared 
upon the threshold, erect, caliii, holding in his hand a pistol, which 
he placed upon the very breast of the man. 

The occupant of the den unconsciously recoiled, as men will do 
when a firearm is suddenly directed at their hearts, and Harley 
took advantage of this movement to kick down the carbine, and 
place his foot upon it. 





HABLEY TOOK ADVANTAGE OF THIS MOMENT TO KICK DOWN THE CABBINE.”— P. 102. 










' J L 


♦ 


» 


j 




« 







.A- 








; 

* W I 


I 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


103 


The man was disarmed and at his mercy. He remained stand- 
ing, looking at Harley with sullen and ferocious eyes. 

Harley returned this glance with one of calm amd settled re- 
• solve. Placing the cocked pistol upon the table, where he could 
grasp it without moving, he drew from his breast-pocket a small 
leather case, opened it, and took from it first a magnificent diamond 
necklace, then a pair of bracelets set with rubies of great value, 
and lastly, a breastpin of large size, blazing with precious stones. 
These jewels, which were evidently of extraordinary value, he 
deposited upon the table, where they sparkled in the light of the 
pine-knot fire. 

The man had looked at him whilst he was opening the case, 
w'ithout indicating in his features any emotion but sullen surprise; 
the sudden entrance of Harley seemed to have paralyzed every 
other sentiment. 

Harley pointed slowly to the table, looking at the man. 

“ Here are the jewels,” he said. “ You see that I am willing that 
you should have them, although you have no legal right to them. 
And now we have finished with that. This is the happiest day of 
my life, for I find that I did not kill you. Let us talk, sir : it may 
lead to a better understanding between us.” 




CHAPTER XXVI. 


“ A. c.” 

Between four and five o’clock in the morning, St. Leger, who had 
lain awake for a long time reflecting, was aroused by the hoof- 
strokes of a horse on the road in front of the house, and then a 
firm step crossed the portico, entered the door, ascended the stair- 
case, and went into Harley’s room, the door of which closed. 

Harley had evidently returned, after attending to his “ business,” 
whatever it might be. 

For half-an-hour St. Leger remained awake, pondering as before. 
He then fell asleep — having formed a resolution. 

This resolution was simple. He had determined, when he came 
down in the morning, to drop all ceremony and say to his host — he 
had shaped in his mind the very words he would employ — 

“My dear Harley, will you be kind enough to relieve the 
curiosity of an unhappy friend of yours, and inform him, frankly, 
whether you are or are not — married 

The question would be unceremonious, but then it would be gay, 
jovial, and, uttered in a tone of unconcern, it might not offend. 
But St. Leger had resolved to run the risk of giving offence. He 
felt himself absolutely called upon, after his conversation with 
Evelyn Bland, to ascertain in some manner whether Harley had 
or had not a wife living ; and he was impelled to adopt his resolu- 
tion far more by his deep and sincere interest in the welfare of the 
woman he had loved than by mere curiosity. St. Leger was in fact 
that rarest of human beings — an unselfish person. He had loved 
Evelyn ardently, and had not found in her rejection of his ad- 
dresses any reason for becoming indifferent to her. He bowed 
like a brave young fellow to his fate, accepted the result, and said 
to himself, “ I can at least be her friend, and watch over her as I 
would over my sister ; unless I do, something tragic will result 
from all this.” For Evelyn to place her affections upon Harley, 
regarding him as unmarried, and a possible suitor, whilst he was 
already married ! — St. Leger knit his brows at the very thought, 
and said to himself that the occasion did not justify ceremony ; he 
would ask, or, if necessary, demand, the truth from Harley’s lips. 

104 



JUSTIN HAELEY. 


105 


He came down ready for the encounter. In spite of his firm 
resolution, and his conviction that his duty as a gentleman required 
him to drop all ceremony, it was not without some repugnance and 
a slight tremor of the nerves that he approached the moment. In 
fact the question was awkward — it was certainly intrusive. How 
would Harley receive it ? Nothing had been easier than asking 
that jocose question in bed, with no one present ! To face his 
friend, and ask it, was quite different. He could see, in imagina- 
tion, the grave countenance of Harley, the cold surprise of his 
expression, the possible hauteur of his lips, as he declined re- 
sponding. • 

What would be the result ? Whatever it might be, he would ad- 
here to his resolution : ask ; take the consequences ; do his duty — 
and St. Leger walked into the breakfast-room. 

Harley was not there. An excellent breakfast smoked upon the 
table ; the urn sang by the cheerful fire ; and the gray-haired old 
African major-domo, with a silver waiter in his hand and a white 
napkin over his left arm, respectfully waited, making him a cordial 
and deferential morning-salute as he came in. 

“ Where is Mr. Harley, James?” he said. 

“ Rode out, sir,” replied James, respectfully ; “ left a note for 
you, sir?’ 

The old African then went to a side-table, took a note from it, 
deposited - the note upon his waiter, and presented it to St. Leger. 
He opened it and read : 

“ My Dear St. Leger— I am called away this morning upon busi- 
ness, and may not possibly return until to-morrow or the next day. 
Try to amuse yourself. You must have returned late last night. 
Were you at Blandfield ? These affairs are always renewed. Bon 
. voyage, mon ami / Your friend, 

' “ Justin Harley.” 

■ St. Leger put the note in his pocket, and sat down to breakfast 
with a feeling of decided relief. The ordeal was deferred. After 
breakfast the young man went out to walk in the grounds. He 
went first to the spot where the woman in black had stood looking 
up at the light in Harley’s window. It was possible, he said to 
himself, that he might follow her by the print of her feet, and thus 
ascertain in what direction she had disappeared. No traces were, 
however, visible. The storm had obliterated everything, and there 
was not the least indication to guide him. He went on, strolling 
idly along and musing. A winding path led through the oaks, 
whose enormous boughs here and there were interlocked, and this 
path conducted him to a little dell, where- a spring welled up. 


106 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


The path led beyond the spring, running beneath a large oak. 
There was a stile in the tall fence, made of a large block. St. Leger 
was about to turn back, when something under the oak attracted 
his attention. .He went and picked it up. It was a black veil. 
He looked at it, examined it for some mark, but could find none. 
As he gave up the search, he chanced to raise his eyes and look at 
the oak. There within a few feet of him, carved in the trunk, 
were these initials : 

“J. H. 

A. C.” 

St. Leger saw that they had been carved there many years 
before, for the bark was closing around the letters, and slowly 
growing over them. 

“ ’ J. H.’ ” he muttered ; “ that seems to stand for Justin Harley ! 
But ‘ A. C.’ — what does ‘A. C.’ stand for?” 

He looked for some time at the letters, shook his head, and then 
putting the veil in his pocket, went back, along the same path, 
to the house. 

An hour afterwards, he had exhausted every means of passing 
the time. 

“ I will take a ride,” he said. His horse was now ready. 
“ Decide for me, chance !” he said, dropping the rein on hi^orse's 
neck, as he rode through the great gate into the highway. 

The animal, thus left to his own guidance, turned toward the left, 
and went, at a long swinging walk, in the direction of the Black- 
water. 

St. Leger did not seem to be aware of the road he was following. 
He had let his chin fall upon his breast, and was musing. 

“ ‘ A. C.’ ! — who is or was ‘ A. C.’ ?” he muttered. 




CHAPTER XXVII. 

FANNY. 

Fanny, the daughter of Puccoon the trapper — has the reader 
forgotten her ? — was sitting in the door of the hut in the hollow, 
'sewing. The garment she was mending seemed to be a conglom- 
eration of rags— it was supposed to be Puccoon’s Sunday coat. A 
large deer-hound was watching the girl ; and the deer-hound was 
employed in an altogether unphilosophical manner, if the love of 
flowers be philosophical. 

Fanny Puccoon was a veritable flower of the spring, blooming 
there in the chill autumn sunshine. She seemed to be — whether 
she was or not — about fourteen, as we have already said, and at 
that age girlhood is in the bud — the flower that is to be just peeps 
from its tender sheath. Fanny’s eyes were of an exquisite blue, 
her cheeks touched with a tint as delicate as that on the leaf of the 
tea-rose, and the light hair, curling naturally, fell around a little 
face full of candor and sweetness, and then upon the shoulders of 
the girl bending over the ragged coat. Her own dress was not 
much better, but was not ragged ; and it fitted neatly to a figure 
perfectly straight, delicately slender, and full of girlish grace. 

Fanny was sewing busily, when all at once a man came out of 
the bushes near the hut, and approached her. The deer-hound 
was about to spring at him; but Fanny quickly rose, calling the 
dog back. She had recognized St. Leger. 

The 5’'oung man came up, smiling, and held out his hand. 

“ How do you do, Fanny,” he said. “ I see you did not expect 
me. I am the prince in the fairly tale. I have risen out of the 
ground.” 

The girl gave him her hand cordially, and St. Leger took it in 
his own, looking, with unconcealed admiration, into the fresh 
young face. 

“ Did I frighten you ?” he said, smiling. 

“ No, indeed, sir. I was not at all frightened.” 

“ I tied my horse at the foot of the hill, as the road was rough, 
and walked up. I came from Mr. Parley’s this morning — my 
horse brought me in that direction.” 

I am very glad to see you again,” said Fanny, cheerfully. 

107 


108 


JUSTIN NAELEY. 


And as St. Leger had taken his seat on a “ split-bottomed chair ” 
beside her, and was caressing the deer-hound, who did not seem 
averse to the ceremony, Fanny went back to her sewing, looking 
up from time to time, in a natural and cheerful manner, as her 
companion talked. 

The young Englishman was twenty-five years of age, and had 
seen an amount of “ life ” in his time which had in his own 
opinion blunted his youthful romance, and made him a philoso- 
pher. But the philosopher found himself looking at this mere 
child, in her homespun dress at the door of a hut, with a singularly 
youthful sensation — a feeling of boyish admiration. 

“ Fanny,” he said. 

She raised her head, and the blue eyes looked out from the curls 
into his own. 

“ I am going back to my home in England very soon, and I shall 
never see you again.” 

“ I am very sorry, sir.” 

St. Leger listened to the low music of the girl’s voice, looked at 
the exquisite face, and asked himself what was the matter with 
him? His heart had filled with a sudden warmth. A moment 
afterwards he began to laugh. 

“ Do you know what I thought just now, Fanny?” he said. 

“ No, sir.” 

“ I thought if I saw you often I should love you very much.” 

The speech was absurd, he said to himself— and why be absurd ? 
What had aroused in him this odd feeling of romance ? Was it 
the autumn sunshine tangling itself in Fanny’s curls — the blue sky 
reflected in her eyes ? 

He had blundered, no doubt, in speaking thus to the girl. She 
would become confused and ill at ease. He looked at her, but 
there was not a particle of any such confusion or awkwardness in 
her expression. 

“I should like you to love me, and not forget me,” she said, 
simply. “ I have often thought of you since you were hurt that 
day, sir.” 

“ When I held your hand so tight !” said St. Leger, laughing. 

“ Did you hold my hand ?” Fanny said, smiling. 

“ Yes, and you did better ; you bathed my poor head. But tell 
me 'about yourself. Do you like living in this lonely place, 
Fanny?” 

“ Oh, yes ! sir. It is not lonely. I have father and Otter.” 

“ Who is Otter?” 

But the owner of that name spoke for himself. He rose up and 
put his paws around Fanny’s neck, and Fanny did not repulse him 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


109 


in the least. Otter then proceeded to lean his tawny muzzle upon 
the girl’s neck, and exhibit indications of perfect content. 

St. Leger remembered that group for a long time. If he had been 
a painter, he said to himself, he would have made a picture of the 
girl and the dog. Fanny dispelled the picturesque in a moment. 

“That will do. Otter,” she said. And Otter obediently resumed 
his recumbent position in the sunshine. 

St. Leger remained for more than an hour talking with Fanny, 
and made her tell him all her little story — how her mother had died 
before she remembered her; how her father had sent her to an 
“ old field-school ” in the hills, where she learned to read ; and how 
she never felt lonely when he was hunting and trapping, as he was 
doing at that moment, but passed her time very happily sewing or 
singing, or making willow baskets. St. Leger listened to the sweet 
tones of the girl with quiet happiness. Looking into her blue eyes, 
he forgot Huntsdon, England, Harley. Could he be falling in love? 
he suddenly asked himself. He began to laugh, rose to his feet, 
and held out his hand. 

“ Good-bye, Fanny !” 

Taking her small hand in his own, be bent down, pressed his lips 
to it, and said, in a low voice : 

“ God bless you, my child !” 

The tone of his voice was so earnest that the girl’s face fiushed, 
and a tear was seen in her eye. St. Leger took his white handker- 
chief, wiped away the tear, and went down the hill with a sadness 
for which he could not account. 

“Am I bewitched ?” he murmured. He mounted his horse, and 
said : 

“ I will keep this handkerchief.” 

When he reached the high road he looked back. Fanny had 
dropped the ragged coat in her lap, and was gazing at him The 
sunshine lit up her curls with a sort of tranquil splendor. She 
always came back to him in memory as he saw her at that moment. 



10 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

SAINTY HARLEY. 

St. Leger returned slowly to Huntsdon, rode up the hill, tied his 
horse at the rack, and had just entered the house— his head down, 
his eyes fixed upon the fioor — when a laughing voice exclaimed, 

“ How do you do, Mr. St. Leger ! I have been waiting for you 
for more than an hour. I am very glad to see you !” 

St. Leger raised his head quickly, and saw standing before him a 
young fellow, apparently nineteen or twenty years of age, clad in 
the height of the fashion, and a model of youthful freshness and 
beauty. The face was fascinating for its gayety and bloom. The 
eyes were full of sunshine. The round contour of the cheeks, the 
down — far too slight and delicate to be regarded evep as an incipi- 
ent beard — the light of youth and joy in the smile, were charming. 

“ Why, Sainty !” exclaimed St. Leger, grasping his hand, “ wdien 
did you arrive? What brought you? You at Huntsdon?” 

The youth looked radiant. 

“ How am I to answer all your questions at once ! I might ask 
you what brought you to Huntsdon, dear Mr. St. Leger, if that 
would not be rude. I reckon we are both surprised — I am pleased, 
I tell you ! Brother Justin wrote me from Vienna that he was 
coming to Virginia, and I might come back, too, on a visit if I chose, 
during the autumn. I had plenty of money — including your tip 
when you came to Eton to see me; and so I took ship, had a 
splendid voyage, and got here to-day — to find not a single soul at 
Huntsdon but old James and the rest of the servants, who have 
made an ovation in my honor.” 

The voice of the youth was delightfully joyful. It was a cordial 
to St. Leger, who had begun to feel solemn from having been mixed 
up lately with so much mystery. 

“Well, my dear Sainty,” he said, looking kindly at the youth in 
his jaunty college-cap, and smiling, “nobody will be happier to see 
you than Justin.” 

“ Where is he, Mr. St. Leger ? Nobody knows.” 

“And I no better. He has ridden out somewhere.” 

“Does he treat you in this unceremonious way?” 

“Oh yes. I am entirely at home — I and Justin are Damon and 
Pythias, and Damon is naturally at his ease in Pythias’ house. I 
UO 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Ill 


came to Virginia to bring dispatches to the authorities, and very 
naturally sought out Justin.” 

“ I hope you did ! To do anything else would have been shocking, 
Mr. St. Leger. How natural the old place does look ! I love it 
better than every other place in the world put together. I am 
going to ride all over it with brother Justin, and then go and see 
uncle George and uncle Joshua at Oakhill, and ” 

“Your uncle George is dead, Sainty.” 

“ Dead !” exclaimed the youth. 

“ He died more than a month ago.” 

The young man looked deeply shocked and grieved, and his gay 
talk ceased. 

On the next morning, Harley not having returned, Sainty 
mounted his horse and rode to Oakhill. He found Colonel Hart- 
right sitting stiffly in his great chair in the library, the door of which 
he opened without ceremony. A moment afterwards he had 
grasped the hand of the old lord of the manor, and said, in his 
fresh, young voice, 

“How do you do, uncle? You are the only uncle I have now. 
Poor old uncle George! I am mighty glad to see you, uncle 
Joshua!” 

It was the first time for many years that anybody had adminis- 
tered to Colonel Joshua Hartright, of Oakhill, that up-and-down 
pump-handle shake of the hand. It shook him up in the most 
surprising manner, and nearly took away his breath. 

“ Why, bless my soul !— ahem ! Is this you, my dear St. George ?” 

“ I hardly know myself by that name, uncle. Everybody calls 
me Sainty.” 

“Yes, yes— well, yes— Sainty. When did you return?” 

“Yesterday, uncle, and I only heard of uncle George’s death when 
I came. Poor uncle George ! It made me cry.” 

Colonel Hartright looked at the youth with an expression of 
kindness and softness that he had not bestowed upon any other 
human being for a long time. 

“I am glad to see that you feel your uncle’s death, Sainty,” he 
said. “ He loved you very much.” 

“ But he loved brother Justin more.” 

“ Colonel Hartright made no reply. He had evidently not for- 
given the elder brother for his European wanderings, and his sup- 
posed financial arrangements in connection with his “expecta- 
tions.” 

“ I have not seen your brother very frequently of late,” he said. 
“ He has, I believe, a gentleman from England with him.” 

“ Yes, uncle— Mr. St. Leger, the finest fellow you ever saw !” 


112 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


And Sainty Harley drew a glowing picture of St. Leger, after 
which he asked about everybody, declared that he would rather 
live in a cabin in Virginia than in a palace anywhere else ; then he 
got up, told Colonel Hartright that he would come back very soon, 
and, inflicting a second pump-handle shake of the hand on that 
gentleman, accompanied by an afiectionate smile, rode away to 
Huntsdon. 

Justin Harley had not even yet returned. St. Leger declared his 
conviction that he must certainly be “ lost ; ” and in the afternoon, 
finding the time hang upon his hands, proposed a visit to Bland- 
field. 

“Judge Bland lives there, don’t he, Mr. St. Leger?” said the 
youth. 

“Judge Bland et alios, or rather alias,” was St. Leger’s reply. 
“There are two charming young persons there, Sainty — namely. 
Misses Evelyn and Annie Bland, to say nothing of a somewhat 
more elderly lady who would be too old for you — Miss Clementina.” 

“ Let’s go at once !” 

“ Very well ; order the horses.” 

They were soon on the way to Blandfield, and reached it as the 
sun was setting. 

As they rode up the avenue, a slight figure flitted along the grassy 
bank of the small stream winding through the low-ground of the 
lawn, and disappeared behind a huge willow. Of this figure Mr. 
St. George Harley alone caught a good glimpse, and he laughed. 

“What is the matter?” said St. Leger. 

“Didn’t you see?” said the youth. 

“See what?” 

“The nymph— or Oread, or Dryad— as you choose.” 

“Where?” 

“Down by the run. She wore a pink dress, and no shoes or 
stockings! I know what she was doing — she was wading in the 
branch ! ” 

It was agreeable to hear the gay laughter of the youth, who 
added. 

And I tell you it was no common milkmaid-nymph. It was 
Miss Evelyn Bland, or Miss Annie. Is that her name?” 

Oh, Annie, by all means !” said St. Leger, returning the laugh. 
“ Miss Evelyn is much too dignified to wade.” 

Well, we’ll soon see. Yonder she goes scudding up the hill! 
She has her shoes and stockings, on ! The fair vision has van- 
ished !” 

They were soon at the door, and everybody was in the parlor, in- 
cluding Judge Bland. St. George Harley’s reception was exceed- 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


113 


ingly cordial, and Miss Evelyn, particularly, exhibited marked 
pleasure in his society. She sang for him, looked at him with the 
sweetest smiles, and in half-an-hour they had grown so intimate 
that the youth was about to ask her if she had been down to the 
run that evening, when tea was announced, and Miss Annie Bland, 
aged about sixteen, — the real nymph — came in demurely, and made 
Mr. St. George Harley a negligent little curtsey, in response to his 
bow. 

AVhen the friends took their leave, which they did not do until 
nearly ten o’clock, there was a general impression at Blandfield 
that something resembling sunshine had been filling the old man- 
sion. This, indeed, was the impression that “ Sainty Harley” always 
left behind him. Is there a great undiscovered /orce — some occult 
animal-magnetic fluid — residing in certain human beings, which 
routs gloom, blue devils, and dullness ? If so, this youth had it. 
Everybody smiled when he came. His voice was a cordial. He 
talked a good deal, but listened well. He was simple, natural, un- 
conscious, and put everybody in a good humor. 

As they rode homeward, he said : 

“ I am very glad you took me to Blandfield this evening, Mr. St. 
Leger. Did you ever see nicer people ? Real old Virginia ! Does 
brother Justin visit there? 

“Very little.” 

“ Well, he’s wrong. I wish he would get married — and the tall 
one is a beauty. She would just do for a sister ! And if brother 
Justin don’t court her. I’ll court her myself!” 

“What do you think of the younger damsel?” 

“ Did not get acquainted with her. She certainly is pretty ; but 
'I say, Mr. St. Leger,— Miss Clementina is jolly, and the old Judge 
is as fine as any nobleman I ever laid my eyes on. Brother Justin 
ought to go oftener. Where can he be? I hope we will find him 
at home when we get back.” 

“ I hope so.” 

The hope was disappointed. Harley had not returned. 

On the next morning Sainty Harley ate an excellent breakfast, 
talking all the time with old James, and asking him questions ; 
rose, wondered that his brother had not returned, and finally 
decided that he would walk over and see his old mammy, at the 
quarters, and his old friend Saunders. 

About one in the day Harley rode up the hill. Dismounting, he 
walked slowly, with his firm step, to the porch where St. Leger 
was seated. 


10 * 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

A NIGHT HIDE. 

St. Leger, looking intently at Harley, could see that he was worn 
and a little fatigued — not very much, however, for his enormous 
powers of endurance had evidently resisted successfully anything 
like physical prostration. He had plainly lost a great deal of 
sleep, or had ridden far, but this had little effect on him. His 
expression was calm and somewhat sad, but his bodily strength 
was evidently unabated, and St. Leger admired for the hundredth 
time this remarkable physique, which he had seen tested so often 
in their long hunts on the shores of the Danube. 

Harley exchanged a cordial grasp of the hand with his friend, 
and said: 

“ Well, my dear St. Leger, how have you been getting on during 
my absence ? Amusing yourself, I hope.” 

“ In a moderate degree. And now, give an account of yourself!” 

“ An account of myself?” 

“Certainly. Do you presume to imagine that a man can be 
allowed to take himself off in this abrupt and mysterious manner, 
with a friend staying in his house, remain absent whole days and 
nights, and, when at last he condescends to return, is not to be 
interrogated in reference to his shocking neglect of all the rules of 
good society ?” 

Harley smiled. “I am thus compelled to account for all my 
movements ?” 

“ Certainly you are.” 

“Well, question me.” 

. “ Where have you been ?” 

“ I have been riding out.” 

“ Far?” 

“ Quite far.” 

“ The distance ?” 

“ Well, something like an hundred miles.” 

“ An hundred miles I -On business, no doubt?” 

“ Yes,” said Harley. 

His head drooped as he spoke, and his face grew grave and sad. 

“ I will tell you where I have been some day,” he added, “ and 
answer all your questions, friend. I owe you that.” 

114 



JUSTIN HAELEY. 


115 


The words brought to St. Leger’s mind his eternal thought — “ Is 
he, or is he not, married!” 

“ You really are a perfect bird of passage, Harley he said, 
“always moving about, always on the wing. Why don’t you settle 
down ?” 

“ Settle down ?” 

“ And get married.” 

“ Married?” 

“ Is that proceeding an enormity in human beings ?” 

“ No, but I have not the least desire to marry.” 

“ Woman-hater !” 

“ Have it as you will.” 

St. Leger assumed his most careless tone, and said : 

“ I really would not be surprised if you had tried the business, 
and had a wife already living.” 

Harley turned his head slightly at these words, and was silent 
for a moment. Then he said, coolly. 

“ What an idea ! But you are eternally jesting.” 

“At least, there must be some reason for this repugnance. 
Virginia is a nest of doves to tempt any hawk. Try where I have 
failed !” 

“ No, thank you. If for no other reason, because you will go 
back.” 

“ You are mistaken, Harley. I have abandoned all pretensions 
to the hand of the fair Evelyn.” 

“ Are you perfectly certain ? Did she ? — that is, have you ? — but 
h^re I am growing ill-bred ! I am prying into your private affairs, 
and nothing certainly could be in worse taste.” 

“ Not at all ! not at all !” St. Leger hastened to say. “ A friend 
may certainly drop ceremony with his friend.” 

“ To a certain point, yes, but not beyond that. Every man, my 
dear St. Leger, has something in his life, at some time or other, 
which he would not thank his best friend to pry into. If, there- 
fore, you confide to me, of your own accord, your feelings, inten- 
tions, what has happened, or may happen— well and good. But I 
shall not be so ill-bred as to interrogate you. To say the very 
least, the proceeding w'ould not be comme il faut” 

St. Leger groaned internally, and gave up the struggle. To con- 
tinue his questions would be ill-bred, intrusive, by no means 
comme ilfaut ! Had not Harley told him so ? ‘ 

“Well, my dear fellow,” he said, “let us drop the subject of 
matrimony, and come to other things. I have not told you the 
news. Sainty has arrived.” 

“Sainty!” 


116 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Does the fact please you or displease you ?” 

“ It delights me beyond words.” 

And, indeed, Harley’s face suddenly glowed. 

“Where is he?” 

The answer was given by Sainty himself, who saw his brother 
from a distance, began to run, and reaching the steps, rushed up, 
and hugged Harley with both arms. 

“ My dear old brother, what an age it seems since I saw you I” 
exclaimed the boy. 

“ Well, here you are, mon garqrni said Harley, with a happy 
light in his eyes. “ How did you leave all at Eton ?” 

“ Flourishing, brother ! But let Eton alone. I have forgotten all 
about it. This is the place for me.’^ 

“I really think it is! And when did you get home? Did you 
have enough of money ? I believe I am growing quite young, my 
boy ! Come tell me everything.” 

And Sainty Harley proceeded to tell his brother everything. He 
was in the middle of his narrative, when old James came to say 
that dinner was ready to be served. 

“ I am glad of it,” exclaimed Sainty Harley, “ I am as hungry as 
a wolf, brother, and I suppose you are too, as you have been riding. 
Where have you been? Mr. St, Leger didn’t know.” 

“ I went to see a friend. But there is just time to get ready for 
dinner. I’ll go make my toilet, and you will tell me the rest of 
your adventures over a bottle of claret.” 

Harley went to his chamber, and changed his dusty suit for one 
of plain black. Dinner followed, was removed, and talk over the 
claret succeeded. Saint George Harley gave a full account of 
himself, described his visit to Oakhill and that to Blandfield, and 
as they rose from table wound up with the observation. 

^ “ Why don’t you court the tall one — Evelyn ? She’s the one for 

you, brother 1” 

Harley smiled and said, 

“I have no intention of marrying, my boy; and now let me 
direct the conversation to yourself. You are two inches taller! 
You are going to have a moustache and whiskers !” 

^ They fell into easy talk, and an hour passed. 

At the end of that time Sainty’s conversation grew' less animated, 
his eyelids drooped a little, and once or twice he nodded in his 
arm-chair, in front of the cheerful blaze. His long tramp had told 
upon him, and after a manful effort to remain awake, he laughed, 
yawned, rose, and said he believed he wrould go to bed. 

“ Do so, Sainty,” said his brother ; “ sleep is necessary at your 
age, and w'e will finish our talk to-morrow.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


117 


' The youth quickly availed himself of this permission, bade them 
a laughing good-nigbt, and disappeared. Thereupon Harley leaned 
back in his chair ; reflected ; rose in a few minutes ; walked to and 
fro, and looked out of the window. 

What is the matter ?” said St. Leger. “ I should think you 
would be glad enough to sit down and rest yourself after such a 
tremendous ride ; and here you are jumping up and walking about, 
and pacing to and fro like that tiger I saw in his cage in London. 
What’s the matter?” 

“ Well— there is some business which I am afraid I shall have to 
attend to to-night.” 

“ Business ?” 

“With Judge Bland.” 

“ Judge Bland ! Why, he is at Blandfield.” 

“ I shall be compelled to go there to-night, I fear.” 

St. Leger looked attentively at the speaker. 

“Your business must be pressing to take you out such a chill 
night, when you are so much fatigued.” 

“ I do not feel fatigued — for the rest, my business is pressing.” 

“ And you are going ?” 

“ Yes, I shall have to, I think.” 

“ I will go with you, then !” said St. Leger, quickly ; that is, if 
you desire my company.” 

“ You ? The ride will not be very agreeable.” 

“No matter. Sainty’s gone to bed, and I have the evening on 
my hands. Order my horse when you order yours.” 

“ I will do so at once, and owe you many thanks. My own so- 
ciety is no great luxury to me ; but you must not count on a long 
visit. To be frank — I wish to return by nine or ten o’clock.” 

“Why?” 

Harley hesitated. 

“Well — I have an appointment.” 

“ An appointment ?” 

“ At Huntsdon here — between eleven and twelve.” 

St. Leger’s curiosity was so much excited by this response, that 
he would probably have lost sight of his friend’s views on prying 
into things, and pried ; but Harley went straight out of the room 
to order the horses. They were soon ready, and, just as the dark- 
ness had fully come, the friends set out slowly toward Blandfield. 

St. Leger had in his disposition a very considerable amount of 
that trait which is incorrectly supposed to be peculiar to the oppo- 
site sex — curiosity. All about Harley had come to interest him 
enormously, but unfortunately his friend had, with a few words, 
rendered direct interrogation impossible. Still, some things were 


118 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


not subjected to this prohibition ; and when they had ridden on 
for a mile or so, St. Leger said : .... 

“ I have something to tell you that I think will interest you, 

Harley.” 

“ Ah ? What is that ?” was Harley’s response. 

“ Do you know that the grounds around Huntsdon are haunted ?” 

“ Haunted ?” 

“ Yes— by a woman.” 

Harley turned his head quickly. 

“ By a woman !” 

“ A woman dressed in black.” 

“ You are jesting, St. Leger !” 

“ I am not jesting in the least — I have seen her.” 

“Seen her?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ When?” 

“ On the night you rode away on some errand — that I know 
nothing about.” 

St. Leger thereupon informed his friend of the adventures which 
had befallen him on his return from Blandfield, the meeting with 
the vagrants, the interview with Puccoon, and the appearance of 
the woman in black under his window. 

Harley listened to the narrative in silence, and did not utter a 
syllable until his friend had finished. He then said, after reflecting 
for some moments, 

“ Have you seen her since that night ?” 

“ I have not.” 

“ And you have not heard of her, or the strollers ?” 

“ All seem to have vanished.” . • 

“Harley reflected deeply; his head drooping — his eyes fixed 
upon the ground. 

“ Poor thing !” he muttered. 

St. Leger was burning with curiosity ; but before he could speak, 
Harley said : 

“ I will be frank with you, my dear friend, and say that your 
account of .Jhis poor woman’s visit afiects me deeply. I will tell 
you more about her before very long : I can only say now that the 
long ride I have just taken was connected with her. • I have made 
every efibrt to find her, but without success. I thought I could 
trace her, but have not been able to do so. What you tell me may 
enable me to discover her now — but the subject is melancholy ; let 
us dismiss it.” 

“ Very well, but ” 

“ How chill it is growing. It was well we put on some wrapping. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


119 


It really feels like snow. -What an extraordinary climate ! The 
morning was positively warm.” 

It was plain what these words meant, and St. Leger said no 
more. They rode on in silence, and at last saw before them the 
lights of Blandfield. 

As they rode up the avenue, Harley held out his hand. A white 
flake settled upon it. He looked up at the dull, leaden sky; 

“ I was right,” he said ; “ it is snowing.” 


N 




CHAPTER XXX. 

WHAT WAS TAKING PLACE IN JUDGE BLANd’s STUDY. 

As the friends approached Blandfield, two members of the house- 
hold there were engaged in animated conversation ; and this con- 
versation had direct reference, as will be seen, to Justin Harley. 

The two persons were Miss Clementina and Judge Bland, and 
the place was the study of the master of the mansion, a small 
apartment in the third story. 

Judge Bland had gone up to his sanctum, carrying a cup of tea 
in his hand, to study an important legal “ record.” Before doing 
so he had supped, and before supping he had gone through a 
kindly and affectionate ceremony, which conveyed so clear an idea 
of his amiable and courtly disposition that it will be briefly de- 
scribed. Courtesy was with Judge Bland a natural instinct ; and 
he had always through life carried out his own principle, that 
“true politeness was founded on benevolence,” and a sedulous 
regard for the happiness of all around us. He treated his family 
with unvarying sweetness, and, it may be added, courtly respect ; 
and his deportment toward Mrs. Bland, his wife, had been the 
same when she was a gray-haired invalid as when she was a 
blooming young bride. For the suffering invalid as for the little 
beauty he had kept his sweetest smiles and his courtliest bows. He 
would suffer no one but himself to wait upon her, and invariably 
prepared her meals with his own hands, selecting the choicest 
parts of every dish ; and then when the waiter was filled, he took 
it with his own hands to his “beloved Marie,” and was made 
happy if she seemed to relish her meal. It was a beautiful sight to 
see this gray -haired and stately gentleman — to whom all, high and 
low, took off their hats — forgetting himself entirely, and dedicating 
himself with a tenderness which no lover could have surpassed to 
the comfort of the poor invalid. 

And when Mrs. Bland died, the unhappy husband, after mourn- 
ing for her as few mourn, seemed to miss the object of these life- 
long attentions most when the moment came to take her meals to 
her. He would say grace — every one would sit down ; but the old 
judge would look around him for his body-servant, gray-haired 
like himself, who had been accustomed to bring the silver waiter. 

120 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


121 


The old servant, standing respectfully behind him, would only look 
grave and sorrowful. Then the poor husband would utter a weary 
sigh, seat himself at the table, and scarcely touch the food which 
he looked at through a sort of mist. At last, he found some con- 
solation ; this was to wait upon his mother, the aged Mrs. Bland, 
who began to keep her chamber. He returned to his former 
habit — carried his mother’s meals to her as he had carried his 
wife’s — and on this evening he had just performed the ceremony in 
question, finished his own supper, and gone with a cup of tea in his 
hand to his study — a plain, rather dingy little apartment, with 
tables covered with papers, and shelves filled with dusty law vol- 
umes — when the door opened and Miss Clementina came into the 
room. 

Miss Clementina was waving her fan in a somewhat agitated 
manner, and a little tremor might have been observed in the rib- 
bons decorating her head-dress. She had been all day refiecting 
upon the interview which was about to take place. She considered 
it her bounden duty to act with decision ; and let it be said here, 
in order that the character and motives of Miss Clementina may 
not be misunderstood, that she was actuated by the very best mo- 
tives, and not in the least by a love of tattle or a desire to inter- 
fere. Tattle was dear to her, but she had not come to indulge her 
favorite propensity. On that morning she had been put in posses- 
sion of certain reports which caused her great uneasiness, and as 
these reports, and their origin, were mentioned in the conversation 
which ensued, we shall proceed at once to the said conversation. 

“ Good evening, my dear,” said Judge Bland, who, although he 
had just parted from Miss Clementina, proceeded thus to do the 
honors of his sanctum. 

“ Are you very busy, brother?” said Miss Clementina. 

“Oh no,” said the polite judge; “do you wish to see me? Sit 
down, my dear.” 

“ I do wish to have a few moments’ talk with you, brother, and 
on a painful subject. 

“ A painful subject?” 

“ Very painful.” 

And the lady took the seat on the opposite side of the fireplace, 
on whose iron andirons a few sticks were blazing cheerfully. On 
the long table, covered with green stuflT, two candles were keeping 
watch over a chaos of law-papers. 

“ I wish to speak of Evelyn, brother, and — of Mr. Harley.” 

“ Mr. Harley, my dear.” 

“ It is very disagreeable to me to have to do so, but I really think 
it is my duty. Evelyn is so young and inexperienced, that her 

11 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


122 


friends should see that she is not deceived, and I very much fear 
that, from the course things are now taking, our dear child is 
about to lay up in «tore for herself an amount of trouble which she 
never dreamed of.” 

Judge Bland was aware of Miss Clementina’s propensity to in- 
dulge in mysterious innuendoes and significant hints. He was ac- 
customed to listen, with his polite smile, on such occasions, waiting 
for some distinct announcement of the lady’s meaning. He 
adopted this course on the present occasion. Leaning back in his 
large arm-chair, resting his elbows on the cushioned arms, and 
joining the points of the fingers of his right hand with the points 
of the fingers of his left,' he smiled, remained calm, and waited. 

Seeing that her auditor was in an attentive state of mind, Miss 
Clementina agitated her fan, and fiowed on. 

“ I fear that Evelyn is becoming interested in Mr. Harley.’' 

“Ah ?— in Mr. Harley ?” 

“ Yes, brother ; and I need not say that I do not mention this 
in any spirit of gossip.” 

“ I am sure I can acquit you of that, my dear sister.” 

“ I love our little Evelyn dearly, and these things are always best 
looked straight in the face, and — where there is an objection — met 
at once. You agree with me, do you not, brother ?” 

“Assuredly, sister. What you say is full of good sense. But 
you must convince me of two things.” 

And the judge smiled benevolently. 

“ What two things, brother ?” 

“ First, that Evelyn is interested, as you say, in Mr. Harley— you 
mean, of course, Justin Harley?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And, secondly, that there is something objectionable in that 
fact— some reason why she should not regard Mr. Harley with 
such interest.” 


“ Well, brother, I must content myself with merely stating my 
conviction as to the first point. I would not like to be more ex- 
plicit, for it seems like spying and betraying confidence — though 
there is none. I am sure Evelyn is very much interested in Mr. 
Harley, who certainly began his acquaintance with her under cir- 
cumstances calculated to prejudice a young lady in a gentleman’s 
favor. He saved her life, and she is naturally and properly grate- 


“ Yes.” 

“ And she is beginning to regard him with something more than 
friendship, I think.’' 

“Do you think so?— but, the objection to Mr. Harley?” 



MISS CLEMENTINA AGITATED HER FAN AND Fi,0\VED ON.’ — P. 122 . 













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123 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Miss Clementina was on firm ground again. She assumed a 
guarded expression of countenance, drew her chair a little closer, 
and said, in a low tone, 

“ Brother, are you sure that Mr. Harley is not — married ? I have 
reasons to fear so. Indeed, I am wellnigh convinced that sucli is 
the fact, from something which has just come to my knowledge.” 




r . 







•J'l 





CHAPTER XXXI. 

VIEWS OF MISS CLEMENTINA. 

When Miss Clementina made this interesting announcement to 
Judge Bland — the announcement, namely, that she was in posses- 
sion of facts wellnigh amounting to a demonstration of Harley’s 
married condition — she looked very grave, and for some minutes 
preserved silence. 

The Judge did not break the silence. He seemed to be waiting, 
and it could only be deduced from his slight smile that he was 
somewhat incredulous. 

“ I can easily understand,” said Miss Clementina, at length, “ that 
what I have said surprises you, brother. I do not expect you to 
think as I do until I have told 5mu what I have heard.” 

You have then heard something — something which seems re- 
liable ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ One hears, you know, so many reports, for which there is no 
foundation whatever. Indeed, I have often been filled with aston- 
ishment at the ingenuity of certain persons in inventing.” 

“ This is no invention, I fear. Clara Fulkson, who was here this 
morning, told me, and you know she is strictly reliable.” 

The Judge preserved a polite and suave silence. 

“We were speaking of Mr. Harley,” continued Miss Clementina, 
“ and Clara very naturally asked what had induced him to return 
to Virginia. I replied that I presumed he had come back to look 
after his estate ; but Clara shook her head, and said the impression 
with many persons was that Mr. Harley had been followed to 
Europe by his wife, and had returned to escape from her.” 

“ His wife ! Has the young man a wife f that is the point.” 

“Well, brother, that is, as you say, the point, and Clara Fulkson 
tells me what I certainly never knew before, that Mr. Harley had 
an afiair with a young lady living in or near the Carolinas, and the 
young lady, it was supposed, eloped with him.” 

“Ah! indeed?” 

“Clara declares that she has It on the best authority, and al- 
though she would not give her authority, I am sure that she is 
convinced of the truth of this much.” 

124 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


125 


“ That Mr. Harley and a young lady eloped ?” 

“ Yes.’’ 

“ And were married ?’’ 

“ It is supposed so, of course. The story is that there was oppo- 
sition of some sort. Mr. Harley had engaged the young lady’s 
affections, and they went off and were married.” 

“ Singular ! And is the lady living or dead now ?” 

“ She is said positively to he living.” 

“ Where?” Humph ! But tell me, first, your friend Miss Clara’s 
theory upon the main point in this surprising matter, my dear. 
Why has young Mr. Harley always concealed his marriage, and 
why do not he and his wife live together ?” 

“ There is said to have been a serious disagreement.” 

“ A disagreement? For what cause ?” 

“ The cause is said to have been misconduct upon the part of 
the lady; and nothing is more probable. I mean that I should 
sooner expect almost any one than Mr. Harley, who is a person of 
calm and patient temper, not without much sweetness under his 
gloom, and could not have misbehaved, I am sure.” 

“ My opinion of Mr. Harley coincides with yours, dear sister. 
Married ! Is it possible ? And his wife — but there was a separa- 
tion, no doubt ?” 

“ It seems so.” 

“ And Mrs. Harley f Where is she ?” 

“This is the most curious part. She is said to have joined a 
company of strolling-players, and takes delight, people say, in 
following Mr. Harley, and harassing him.” 

“ Humph ! All this has a very romantic look, sister.” 

“ I would not pay any attention to it, were it not for Evelyn.” 

“ You do not think Mr. Harley capable of paying his addresses 
to a young lady whilst his wife— if he has a wife— is living?” 

In the first place, brother, he is not paying his addresses to 
Evelyn.” , 

“ Yes ! yes ! You mean, however.” 

“ That Evelyn may become— even is— interested in him, regard- 
ing him as an unmarried person.” 

“Humph!” 

“ And then, have you thought of another thing, brother?” 

“ What?” 

Mr. Harley may have been married in this colony, and divorced, 
as he supposes, elsewhere ; and yet that form of divorce may not 
be binding, or, as I have heard you- say, operative, here.” 

Judge Bland knit his brows. Miss Clementina was talking the 
soundest good sense. There was the chance that she had, by acci- 

11 * 


126 


JUSTIN HAELEY. 


dent, as it were, touched with her finger the morbid point in Har- 
ley ; his supposition might be the actual fact. He might have 
been married, might think himself free, and might not be. 

“ It would be fearful,” continued Miss Clementina, “ if Evelyn’s 
feelings were engaged ; they might go on and marry without fault, 
that they knew of, on either side, and might not he married^ 

Judge Bland knit his brows more and more. 

“ You are right, sister,” he said, “ There is always the possibili- 
ty, and it is our place to take care of the possibilities.” 

“ Assuredly it is.” 

“ Your advice is ?” 

“ To discourage, as far as possible, any intimacy between Evelyn 
and Mr. Harley, brother.” 

“ That will not be difficult, as he seldom comes to Blandfield and 
does not go out.” 

“ Fortunately.” 

“ And a word will suffice for the rest, I suppose. My daughter 
need only have it hinted that there is doubt and mystery about 
Mr. Harley.” 

Miss Clementina, better acquainted, possibly, with her own sex, 
looked dubious. 

“ Evelyn had best go away,” she said. “ until Mr. Harley returns 
to Europe, as he soon will, they say. She might accept the invita,- 
tion to ‘ Rosewell.’ Mrs. Page is longing for her, she says.” 

“An excellent idea, sister. Ido not share your anxiety fully; 
and, to be frank with you, I doubt this whole story about young 
Harley. But you were very right to speak.” 

“ I thought it my duty.” 

“ Luckily— if there be truth in these rumors— the young gentle- 
man has entirely ceased visiting us.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And it is doubtful if we will see him again before his return to 
Europe.” 

Muffled hoof-strokes were heard on the road beneath, and Miss 
Clementina went to one of the dormer windows. A light in the 
hall shone through the front door. 

In the two horsemen who had stopped at the door, and were 
dismounting, she recognized Harley and St. Leger. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

IN MRS. bland’s chamber. 

The visitors were met at the front door by an old servant, who 
made them a respectful salute. A door was open on the right, 
beyond that leading into the dining-room, and a bright fire was 
burning in the fireplace of the apartment— the aged Mrs. Bland’s 
chamber. The old lady was seated in her great arm-chair, knitting 
busily by the light of a candle, in a silver candlestick, which candle- 
stick stood upon a small circular mahogany table, brilliantly 
polished. The snowy bed, with tall^ slender posts and a tester, 
was near, and a cat was asleep on the rug, in the bright light of 
the cheerful fire. 

The visitors unconsciously glanced through the open door, and as 
the old lady had raised her eyes to see who had come to Blandfield 
upon such a night, the recognition was mutual. 

“ Come in ! Come in to the fire, young gentlemen,” said Mrs. 
Bland, in her cordial, silvery treble. “You must not be ceremoni- 
ous. I am only an old woman, and everybody comes into my room, 
since I cannot go out. Come in! I beg; it is growing quite cold — 
quite cold, indeed — and the fire is burning brightly here.” 

The invitation was too cordial to be declined, all the more as, in 
giving it, Mrs. Bland paid her visitors the compliment of placing 
them upon the footing of relatives or familiar friends, toward whom 
ceremony was unnecessary. It must be added that St. Leger, at 
least, found that beautiful blazing fire most attractive; the sight of 
it was charming. Having removed their wrappings, they entered, 
taking the seats which the smiling old lady pointed out. 

“ How very skilful in me to entrap you young gentlemen, and 
entice you in to see me before the rest,” said Mrs. Bland. “ You 
will not have a cup of tea? Well, I am very glad to see you! 
The society of young people is quite delightful to me. I think you 
must be the younger; are you not, Mr. St. Leger?” You, Mr. 
Harley, must be a little older. 

“ I am just thirty, ma’am,” said Harley, gently, highly pleased 
with the serene and elegant old lady. 

“ I thought I could tell you your age, my dear. Excuse me, I am 
too unceremonious. I have a way of counting back. Your father 
was married in — let me see — but I need not trouble my poor head 

127 



128 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


about all that now. You are thirty ! Well, well, how time passes ! 
And you have been to Europe a long time, it seems. Come home, 
now, my dear — excuse me — and live in Virginia.” 

Harley smiled. 

“ But Huntsdon is so large and lonely, Mrs. Bland.” 

“ Then get married.” 

“ Is such your advice, madam ?” 

“ Certainly ! certainly ! Young gentlemen should not marry too 
early. I would not be in haste, for there is a great deal, a very 
great deal of responsibility in marrying. But marry when the time 
comes ; and that time comes, my dear, — excuse me — at thirty.” 

“ So I am not yet old enough,” said St. Leger, laughing. “ I am 
but twenty-five, Mrs. Bland.” 

“ That is a very good age.” 

“ And I should proceed, it seems, to commit matrimony at once !” 

The young man sighed. Was he thinking of a certain young 
lady, who, at that moment, was winding a string of pearls in her 
hair, just over his head, with ten feet, some plaster, and a floor 
between? 

“ To form one’s opinion from your view, Mrs. Bland,” he added, 
“ marriage is unalloyed bliss.” ’ 

The old lady smiled, and glanced at him above her spectacles. 

“ There is nothing in the world entirely unalloyed, Mr. St. Leger.” 

“And marriage is not?” 

“ No indeed. Everything depends upon the person one marries. 
And too much care cannot be taken in forming so indissoluble a 
tie.” 

“Indissoluble?” Is it so impossible, then, to get rid of the fet- 
ters of matrimony?” 

“ Not impossible, my dear ; but I have never known a divorced 
couple to lead happy lives. Better, a thousand times, live single 
throughout a long life ! Am I not right, Mr. Harley ?” 

“ I use your expression, madam, and say yes, a thousand times'^ 

“ You must have observed such cases?” 

“ I have, madam.” 

The old lady went on knitting busily, and talking. 

“ It makes no difference which is to blame ; the result is always 
bad for both, though, of course, much worse for the wife than for 
the husband. There was poor Julia ” 

But what the full name of the poor Julia was, or what had been 
the fate of that unfortunate lady, was never known to Harley and 
St. Leger. The door opened, and Miss Clementina sailed in, fol- 
lowed by Judge Bland. The lady made a formal curtsey ; the 
Judge bowed, and held out his hand with grave politeness. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


129 


“ Good evening, gentlemen !” he said. “ I am glad to see that you 
have been invited to my mother’s chamber ; it is the most agreeable 
room in the house. I know she has offered you a cup of tea, and 
I trust, as it is snowing heavily, you will allow me to have your 
horses put away, and spend the night. It will not do for you to re- 
turn to Huntsdon on such an inclement night.” 

Harley remained standing. 

“ I regret that it'is not in my power to stay, my dear sir. Are 
you busy to-night? If not, may I beg a few moments’ private con- 
versation ? I need your advice upon a point of law.” 

“ A legal opinion ? I will assist you in any manner in my powder 
with very great pleasure.” 

Harley looked round. His meaning was plain. 

“ Perhaps it would be best to go up to my study,” said Judge 
Bland. “We can then return to the ladies.” 

Harley bowed. 

“ I was about to suggest that our conversation would not proba- 
bly prove very entertaining,” he said. 

As Harley spoke, St. Leger uttered a slight laugh. Harley looked 
at him with inquiring eyes. 

“ I suppose there never was a more indiscreet personage than 
myself,” said St. Leger. “I was just about to say that nothing 
interests me more than discussions and points of law. Luckily I 
have said nothing! Your conversation may be on confidential 
matters, and I will not intrude.” 

Harley evidently hesitated. Then he said : 

“ There is no reason why you should not be present, my dear 
St. Leger, if you desire it— none whatever. It wull be a mere legal 
consultation. Come !” 

St. Leger smiled, and followed Harley and Judge Bland up-stairs 
to the study of the latter. 




CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE LAW OP DIVORCE. 

The three gentlemen entered the small study, where the crack- 
ling fire and the candles in the silver candlesticks gave a cheerful 
light, — all the more agreeable from contrast with the steady fall of 
the thick snow-fiakes, seen through the window— and Judge Bland 
drew up two chairs. 

St. Leger seated himself at one corner of the fire-place ; Harley 
opposite the Judge ; and that gentleman, leaning back in his arm- 
chair, assumed an air of courteous attention. 

“ I have an appointment in an hour or two from this time, my 
dear sir,” said Harley, “ and shall therefore, with your permission, 
proceed without delay to the object of my visit, which, briefly, is 
to ascertain the law of divorce as it now exists in Virginia.” 

“ Of divorce?” said Judge Bland, with some surprise. 

“ I mean — to be more explicit, sir — what does the common law 
regard as sufficient ground for an application, either on the part of 
the husband or of the wife, for a divorce a vinculo matrimonii, which 
I believe is wholly different from a divorce a mensa et thoro” 

“Wholly difierent,” said Judge Bland, gravely. 

He looked attentively at Harley. What could be his object? 
The rumors in reference to his visitor occurred to him. Could it be 
possible that a secret marriage, such as Miss Clementina suspected — 
but he suppressed his curiosity, and said, calmly, 

“ I understand you to desire a brief summary of the English law 
on the subject of divorce ?” 

Harley inclined his head with grave courtesy. 

“ I will state briefly,” said Judge Bland, leaning back thoughtfully 
in his chair, “ the principles controlling the action both of the spi- 
ritual and the common law courts on this — I may say — very painful 
subject. Divorce is regarded by our law as the last and extreme 
remedy for a state of things which no other remedy can touch ; and 
is decreed most cautiously — I might say with the utmost reluctance — 
and only when no other course is possible. The explanation of this 
fact may be given in few words. Marriage is both a sacrament and 
a civil contract of the most binding force. The very foundations of 
society rest upon it — it is not only the hearthstone of the family, 
but the corner-stone of the social fabric. To dissolve this most 
130 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


131 


solemn and sacred of all human ties lightly, would be to turn society 
into a band of wild beasts. It is not too much to say that such a 
proceeding would result in a revel of brutality and every murderous 
instinct — man would sink to the brute. Such, at least, is the view 
of the English law, which decrees divorce only on clear proof of a 
state of things utterly irreconcilable with continued cohabitation — • 
infidelity, for example, on the one side, and physical cruelty, such 
as beating or striking, on the other ; — and even in these cases, so 
great is the objection of the courts, it is sought to make the separa- 
tion one a mensa et thoro rather than a vinculo matrimonii.” 

Judge Bland then proceeded to present a lucid statement of the 
main cases decided by the courts, mentioning especially Foliambe’s 
case in 3d Salkeld’s Reports. The law had there been fully exam- 
ined and the controlling principles laid down. The J udge concluded 
as he began, with a forcible exposition of the sanctity of the mar- 
riage tie, and the noted aversion of the courts to disturb it, save in 
cases where its longer continuance was impossible. 

Harley had listened with close attention. It was impossible to 
ascertain from the expression of his countenance, which was calm, 
grave and impenetrable, what thoughts were passing in his mind ; 
and St. Leger, who had watched him closely, impelled thereto by 
an overmastering curiosity, was wholly unable to decide whether 
his friend had asked Judge Bland’s advice for his own guidance or 
not; or, if for his own, whether divorce was contemplated, or had 
already taken place. The whole affair was a maze of perplexity to 
the young Englishman. What was the meaning of this application 
to the counsellor ? Who had been, or was to be, divorced ? For it 
W'as plain that Harley, weary as he was after his long journey, 
would never have taken this night-ride to Blandfield without an 
express object. Was he, then, really married, and was he seeking 
to relieve himself of the yoke of an unfortunate and hateful 
union? With whom was that “appointment?” He looked with 
fixed attention at Harley, as all this passed through his mind ; but 
always the same impenetrable face met his eyes — a face calm, 
grave, untroubled, but not cheerful. 

“ I need scarcely add anything,” said Judge Bland, with great 
gravity, “ to the considerations I have already stated ; and although 
the ecclesiastical and common law lay down a large number of 
grounds on which an application for divorce may be granted, I have 
called your attention as clearly as possible to the two grounds, and 
the only two, upon which the courts will grant such an application, 
unless the circumstances are so very peculiar and unusual as to 
induce them to make an exception to their ordinary course of pro- 
ceeding. These grounds, I repeat, are a breach of faith on the part 


132 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


of the wife, which in all countries — among the veriest savages — is 
regarded as a virtual termination of the relations of husband and 
wife, and in some countries is punished with death — the law even 
empowering the husband to inflict the penalty ; and, on the man’s 
part, cruelty, the employment of his superior physical strength to 
inflict personal violence upon the wife — which as justly necessi- 
tates her removal from his control by the arm of the law. I have 
here summed up accurately— if briefly— I think, sir, the spirit and 
practice of the English law. Should you wish further suggestions 
upon other points, it will afford me pleasure to aid you, to the best 
of my ability to do so.” 

Harley reflected. 

“ I am greatly obliged, sir,” he said, “ by your lucid statement. 
I believe there is no other point. One other question I should, 
however, like to ask. Is the process of obtaining a divorce a 
vinculo, where the full case is made out, a tedious one?” 

“ Is there to be— I should say, does your question contemplate — 
opposition? That would, of course, render the proceeding more 
complicated, and therefore make it more lengthy.” 

“ Let us say, sir, that there is no desire to oppose the process — an 
agreement upon both sides that the marriage shall terminate.” 

“ Then the affair need not consume a great deal of time, sir. 
The law looks for a party that denies as for a party that asserts. 
If a defendant remains passive, and the law is for the plaintiff, 
the courts consider that a decree for the plaintiff may be entered 
at once.” 

Harley rose, and said, 

“ I again ofler you my thanks, sir, for your advice, and am truly 
glad to have my own views upon this, as you say, very painful 
subject,, confirmed by an authority as high as your own. I am 
aware that my visit and its object must appear singular to you, 
and that you may regard it as somewhat strange that I do not 
inform you of the particular case involving these questions, and the 
course I propose to pursue. I regret that, at present, circumstances 
prevent me from speaking more explicitly. I can only add that 
my motive is good, and that an intelligent comprehension of the 
law on the points mentioned was absolutely necessary for my 
guidance in an affair of the first importance, which I have very 
greatly at heart. At another time ” 

Judge Bland did what he very seldom had done in all the course 
of his life — he interrupted the person speaking to him. Raising his 
hand suddenly, with his fingers extended, and the palm turned 
outward toward Harley, he said, in a quick and rather formal 
tone. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


133 


“ No ! I beg Mr. Harley ! Pray do not regard the slight assist- 
ance rendered you — if it be such— by myself as placing you under 
the least obligation to explain the object of your interrogatories.” 

Harley inclined his head with calm courtesy. 

“ I regard such an explanation when the moment comes,” he said, 
“ as due to the friend of my father, and I hope of myself too.” 

“ I am very sincerely your friend, sir.” 

“ And you shall always remain such, sir, if it is in my power to 
preserve your respect and regard. Losing it, I should think worse 
of myself^, and justly. I repeat, therefore, that the time will come, 
and is not distant, when all this disagreeable mystery will be made 
clear.” 

“ I shall appreciate such a mark of personal regard, but do not 
consider it incumbent upon you by any means,” the Judge formally 
replied. 

“ Thanks, sir. We will now return.” 

“ Are you obliged to do so ?” 

“ Absolutely.” 

“ Your ride will be a disagreeable one. The snow is falling faster 
than ever.” 

“ My appointment, I am sorry to say, is imperative.” 

“ You cannot defer it? I can send a servant ” 

“ Thanks, sir, but it cannot be deferred.” 

Judge Bland, who had risen, received this response with an ex- 
pression of courteous regret; and having been informed by St. 
Leger that he too must return, begged his visitors to come again at 
their early convenience ; he himself was old and busy, and they 
must not stand upon ceremony. 

They then went down stairs, and Harley walked straight through 
the hall to the front door without stopping. The door of the draw- 
ing-room was closed, but from within came the sound of the harpsi- 
chord, lightly touched in an absent and desultory manner by some 
one, who seemed to be in that idle and unoccupied mood which 
characterizes young ladies when, weary of reading, sewing, or 
sleeping, they are not averse to receive visitors. Was it the young 
lady who had twisted the pearls in her hair ? 

But neither Harley nor St. Leger stopped. The latter was ab- 
sorbed by the singular interview with Judge Bland, and had a 
vague feeling that the “ appointment ” which his friend was going 
back to keep at Huntsdon might put an end to this most mysterious 
of mysteries. When Harley, therefore, went out, shaking hands at 
parting, with Judge Bland, he followed ; they mounted their horses, 
and set out at a gallop, through the fast-falling snow, toward 
Huntsdon. 


12 


134 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


As they mounted, the desultory notes of the harpsichord ceased, 
a shadow crossed the apartment, and this shadow took up its posi- 
tion behind the lace curtains, between which, where they opened 
ill the middle, the shadow peeped out. 

Had the shadow got tired of the harpsichord and come to look 
at the snow, with incidental surprise at the abrupt departure of the 
horsemen ? 

The pearls had been interwoven uselessly in the pretty curls. 
Evelyn had nobody to look at her. The visitors were returning at 
full speed toward Huntsdon. 




■ ji 



HE SAW A LIGHT THROUGH THE FALLING FLAKES.”— P. 135 . 











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CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A MAN WITH A LANTERN. 

Harley and St. Leger went on at full gallop through the slow, 
steady, never-ceasing snow-fall. Their horses were the finest in 
the Huntsdon stables. Harley’s, especially, was an animal of great 
power, who kept the long, regular gallop unurged ; his neck arched 
from the heavy hand of his rider on the rein ; his nostrils flecked 
with foam-flakes. 

Harley’s eyes were fixed straight before him. He had evidently 
quite forgotten the presence of St. Leger, and was thinking of some- 
thing which completely deverted his attention from the landscape 
through which he moved; and yet the landscape was striking. 
The snow began to cover every object— a ghastly shroud, hiding 
not the face of living nature, it seemed, but something that was 
dead. The trees rose, gaunt and weird, like phantoms of the night ; 
the bushes, as they passed, were goblin-like, with outstretched 
arms to arrest the travellers. They themselves resembled phan- 
toms. As they went on, their horses’ hoofs made no noise on the 
soft snow. They passed over the long levels, up the hills, down 
into hollows, where the road ran between overhanging banks, 
thick-clothed with evergreens, quite ghastly now— as silent as 
shadows. 

Harley was looking still straight before him, when he saw a light 
through the falling flakes. This light was an eccentric one; it 
moved along the ground, rose, was lowered, disappeared, re-ap- 
peared, and then moved steadily forward, still near the surface. 
A man was carrying a lantern, it seemed, and was approaching the 
main road at right angles, coming from the north and going toward 
the south. 

There was something singular in this light, moving steadily in 
the wild spot, on such a night. Who was the night-wanderer ? 
Absorbed as he was in thought, Harley followed the light with his 
eyes, saw it approach the road over which he was riding, and 
reached the point where another road crossed, just as the light did. 
It was carried in the hand of a man who walked in front of a small 
van, covered with canvas, and drawn by a solemn-looking donkey. 
Beside the van, like pall-bearers beside a coffin, walked four or five 
men, wrapped in nondescript overcoats. Men, van, and donkey 
■were snow-covered. 


135 



136 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Harley was about to continue his way, when suddenly the thought 
passed through his mind — 

“ This is the couapany of strollers,” 

“ He stopped all at once — St. Leger imitating him — and called out 
to the man with the lantern to halt. The command was at once 
obeyed, and the light fell upon the face of the man. It was the 
manager of the strollers, and a glance showed Harley that his order 
to him to halt had occasioned him very considerable trepidation. 

“ A word with you, friend,” said Harley. “ You are travelling 
late.” 

“Yes, your honor. We are poor playing people making for 
Smithfield. A bad night, your honor.” 

“ A bad night, as you say.” ^ 

He leaned over his horse’s neck, close to the man. 

“ Where is the — woman— I saw a month ago in this company ? 
Tell me, and I will pay you well for the information. Refuse to tell 
me, and you shall lie in Smithfield jail to-morrow as a kidnapper 
and vagrant.” 

“ The woman ? Oh ! your honor ? am I to get into trouble about 
that woman ? I wish I had never seen her ! 

“ Where is she?” 

“ Your honor ” 

“ Where is she !” 

“ Now, don't, your honor ! Don't be hard on a poor fellow that’s 
done nothing. She’s gone, your honor— gone, and I’ve never laid 
eyes on her since.” 

Harley looked at the man upon whose face the light of the lan- 
tern fell clearly. There was no mistaking the face. Terror was 
written upon it— terror too great to be reconcilable with deceit. 

“ You do not know, I see that. Why did she leave you ?” 

“Well, your honor,” said the stroller, much re-assured, “I can’t 
tell that, and nobody can, except it is a Mr. Justin Harley.” 

“ Justin Harley !” 

“ That’s the name, sir. It is on a paper we found this very day, 
among her things. Queer enough, but somebody saw it before. 
There is a Mr. Harley living somewhere in this country, I’m told. 
The paper must be for him.” 

“ The paper !— a paper addressed to Justin Harley !" 

“ Just so, your honor.” 

“ Give me the paper !” 

“ Give it to your honor !” ~ 

“ I am Justin Harley.” 

And knitting his brows with sadden gloom, he repeated, 

“ Give me the paper !” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


137 


The man, who had listened with evident surprise, saw that Har- 
ley was too much in earnest to endure temporizing. 

“ Yes, your honor ; you shall have the paper in a minute,” he 
said. 

It was not far to seek. The vagrant put his hand into his breast, 
drew out a sealed packet, and gave it to Harley, saying, as he did so, 

“ I hope you’ll remember a poor man, sir. You see I am making 
no difficulty. I don’t know your honor. I was going to look for 
you, and give you. this; but if you say you are Mr. Harley, that’s 
enough.” 

Harley had taken the packet, and was looking at it closely. It 
was of coarse paper, heavily sealed, and his name was written upon 
the cover. 

“ Her writing !” he muttered. “ I know it too well ! Yes, her 
writing ; and this paper is addressed to me !” 

He was about to tear it open, but instead of doing so, put it in 
the breast-pocket of his coat, and buttoned the coat over it. 

“ Not now, and not here,” he muttered. 

During this time the manager of the strollers was looking at him 
with very great anxiety. The paper had left his possession, and 
an equivalent had not been forthcoming. Harley comprehended 
the look and replied to it. 

“ Yes,” he said — “ I had forgotten.” 

He took out his purse, selected a bank of England note of con- 
siderable value, and handed it to the stroller. 

“ That to begin with,” he said, “ on condition that you reply to 
my questions. Afterwards, if you accomplish what I wish, as 
much more — twice as much more.” 

The stroller’s eyes had glittered with cupidity. He examined the 
bank of England note with unflattering intensity, uttered a little, 
suppressed grunt of delight, and placed it, with cautious rapidity, 
in an inner pocket. 

“Yes, your honor, yes— I will do anything. Your honor has 
only to command. Where’s the base slave that, seeing straight 
before him !— but enough of this !” 

“ More than enough ! This is no time for your heroics, sir. 
have no time to waste. First for my questions.” 

“ Anything your honor — anything a poor ” 

“ Tell me all about — this woman,” interrupted Harley. “ I— take 
an interest in her; but that is not the question. How did she 
come to be a member of your company? Where and when did 
you meet her first ? Tell me all— all ; and I warn you I will have 
the plainest answers and the plainest truth. I am in no haste. 
The night is before us.” 


12 * 


138 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


The stroller wiped the snow from his face. 

“ It is a bad night to talk in, your honor, but ” 

“ True. I had forgotten. Yonder is a better place. You will not 
reach shelter, and had better bivouac — fire is house and bed.” 

“ I see your honor is a soldier.” 

“ I am a hunter at least, and used to this. Yonder is your bivouac 
under that pine, where the bank shelter you.” 

He pointed to a large pine growing at the edge of the road, 
beneath a bank. The heavy foliage had protected the ground from 
the snow, and drooped with its burden, making a warm nest. 

“ There is the fence— burn it. It is my own. And now for my 
questions.” 

The strollers kindled a fire with the rapidity of old hands at the 
business. A bright blaze sprung up beneath the pine — the donkey 
was unhitched — the men gathered around the fire, St. Leger waited 
patiently, and Harley and the manager, at some paces off, began to 
talk — or rather Harley listened. The stroller had evidently been 
impressed by the warning to be straightforward and to conceal or 
misrepresent nothing. His story was essentially the same as that 
which he had told St. Leger — whom he did not seem in the least 
to recognize. Travelling, many years before, upon a highway which 
had just entered a clump of woods, a woman, scarcely more than 
twenty in appearance, had suddenly joined them, laboring under 
great excitement — flying, it seemed, from some one or something. 
They must save her! — save her 1 she cried ; and thinking it only 
humane to succor beauty, ( here the stroller became sentimental, but 
was checked by an impatient exclamation from Harley,) they had 
given her refuge, placed her in the van, travelled on, and she had 
remained with them. 

“ And no one pursued her ?” 

Nobody, your honor 1” 

“ She gave you her name?” 

“ A name, your honor — a mere make up— we have forgot it, and 
always called her Cleopatra.” 

“She acted ?” 

“ Like a queen, your honor 1” 

“ She was— irreproachable ? Answer plainly.” 

Harley’s voice changed a little ; his eyes were full of a gloomy 
fire. 

“ Irre-proach-able ?” said the manager, pronouncing the long word 
with sedulous care, “I believe, your honor ! Irre-proach-able? — 

“ ‘ Chaste as the icicle that hangs in Dian’s ’ ” 

“ That is enough. Spare me your stage-talk — I am in no humor 
for it. Why did she leave you ?” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


139 


The stroller shook his head. He looked for a single instant at 
Harley, evidently with the desire of saying, “ It was after seeing 
you that night;” but this intimation, he seemed to feel, would 
hazard his prospective gains. 

“ I don’t know any more than the babe unborn, your honor. I 
only know’ w’e woke up on the morning after — a performance — and 
the bird had flown.” 

“ You don’t know where she is?” 

“ No more than the babe just mentioned, as I live, your 
honor !” 

“ Good, and now listen to me, and hear only what I say, without 
asking questions, or repeating anything to any one. Look for this 
woman. Find her if you can — or some trace of her. Then come at 
once to me. I live at a house called Huntsdon, not far from this 
spot — any one can direct you. Bring me information of her, and I 
will pay you for your information, and pay you largely.” 

The stroller took off his hat and bowed low. He respected that 
strong vibrating voice — and the roll of bank-notes he had seen in 
the purse of the owner of the voice. 

“Yes, yes, your honor. I’ll And your honor’s house, never fear, 
your honor.” 

“ And keep your own counsel.” * 

“ I am secret as death itself, your honor ! And never fear. She 
is lurking somewhere — she can’t be very far. I see you take an 
interest in her— that’s enough— I haven’t -asked, your honor ” 

“ Ask me nothing,” said Harley, gloomily. “ I want this infor- 
mation, and I w’ill pay for it.” 

He reflected for a few^ moments, and his face grew soft and sad. 

“ Poor girl !” he muttered. “ On such a night ! She may be at 
this moment ” 

He looked up. The stroller was watching him. 

“I have ‘said all that I need say,” he muttered. “Begin your 
search at once — to-morrow.” 

And making a brief salute with his hand, he mounted, and set 
out again, with St. Leger at a gallop, as before, looking straight 
before him still. The long, steady' gallop carried him swiftly over 
the white road ; and the forest around Huntsdon rose in front of 
him. 

“ Poor, poor girl !” he murmured again. On such a night ! God 
grant she may be sheltered! Forgive her! Oh yes! from the 
bottom of the heart she wellnigh broke! I must see her again, if 
only for an instant. How can I think of it ! On such a night !” 

He went up the hill, still at the long gallop, followed by St. Leger. 
As he threw himself from the saddle in front of the portico, he 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


140 


looked toward the oak, under which St. Leger had informed him 
she had concealed herself. 

“ If she were only there !” he murmured ; “ but, thank heaven ! 
she is not. On such a night, with her poor little feet !” 

He drew a long breath. Then he called, and the groom, who 
who always awaited him, came promptly. 

“ Has any one been here?” he said. 

“ No, Mas’ Justin.” 

He looked at his watch, on which a gleam from one of the win- 
dows fell. 

“ It is time,” he said. 

He went slowly up the steps, followed by St. Leger, the groom 
leading off their horses through the falling snow. His hand was 
thrust into his breast. He seemed anxious to assure himself that 
the package was still there, and to guard it. 

“ Why did she ever write this ?” he murmured. “ I do not wish 
to read it. I think I know what it contains. But — ah ! the long, 
long hours when she was thinking of me — writing her heart here ! 
Poor girl ! poor girl f” . 

St. Leger laid his hand upon his arm. He was deeply affected. 

“ And to think,” he said, “ that I have heard you called cold 

Harley drew along breath, and looked at his companion with 
unutterable sadness. 

“ It is better, perhaps, to be — this life is so sorrowful,” he mur- 
mured. 

They went in, and the door closed. 

Until after midnight, Harley sat up, evidently expecting some 
one. 

This some one did not come. The snow continued to fall in a 
blinding mass. The long hours slowly passed. 

The appointment had not been kept, and without another word 
upon the subject, Harley bade his friend good-night, and retired to 
his chamber. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

ONLY TWENTY-EIGHT. 

In this strange world we very often pass near what we are seek- 
ing. 

Harley and his friend had scarcely entered the house, when a 
sort of shadow glided beneath one of the great oaks, passed along 
the front of the mansion, and approached the portico. 

This shadow was a young woman — thin, feeble-looking, and clad 
in black. A chance-gleam from one of the windows fell upon her 
face. When Harley and St. Leger had seen it in the tobacco-house, 
the thin white cheeks were covered with rouge, and the momentary 
excitement of acting had changed the natural expression. Now 
the rouge had disappeared, and there was no excitement. A cold, 
dumb despair seemed to ^possess this human being, and her face 
was the face of a ghost. 

Her feet, as she walked, left deep prints in the snow, which was 
now several inches in depth, and these prints were small and slen- 
der — the feet were evidently delicate. One hand drew around her 
shivering figure a black cloak, and this hand was slight and lady- 
like — the hand of a person who has never performed manual labor. 
In the movements of the slender and wasted figure there was 
something woe-begone. Despair impersonate, there in the chill, 
weird night, might have looked thus. 

The woman walked swiftly along the front of the house, as if 
resolutely bent on going up the broad steps and ‘knocking at the 
door. A close observer would have said that she walked thus 
rapidly for fear her resolution would give way. And before she 
reached the steps it had given way. Her pace lessened ; she raised 
her head, hesitated, stopped— her head sank again, and uttering a 
low sob, she turned round and began to walk back. After taking 
a few steps, she again stopped, went once more toward the door, 
reached the steps, ascended two or three, and then, her resolution 
entirely ' failing, she buried her face in her cloak and hurried 
away. 

Away from the great, dreary-looking mansion, with its glaring 
eyes, which seemed to follow her ; away from the oak under whose 
drooping boughs she had hidden, night after night; along the wind- 
ing path by the spring where St. Leger had picked up the black 

141 




142 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


veil, and beneath the tree on whose trunk were carved the letters 
“J. H.” and “A. C.” ; over the rude style, out into the broad fields, 
toward the lonely, gloomy, never-ending forest — so the poor, frail 
thing went into the night. 

As she hurried on, her thin form bufl'eted by the snow which a 
cold wind was driving, now, straight into her face — her steps 
wavering, her shoulders shivering, as the blast struck her — she 
moaned, uttering inarticulate words. 

At last these words became distinct, and might have been heard 
if any one had been near. There was a dull despair in them — the 
suppressed cry of a hungry, miserable heart — resembling the un- 
happy cry of a child in pain. 

“ O me ! ” the woman said, “ I am only twenty-eight — I am not so 
old — and I am going to die to-night ! I would not care for that — I 
have nothing to live for — but O me ! I have not seen him ! — I have 
not seen him ! and I shall die, and never see him and tell him 
everything, and find my child ! ” 

She tottered on, uttering that low sound which the word moan 
scarcely describes. 

“I have gone there night after night; I have watched and 
watched, and resolved, time after time, and looked up at that light, 
and I could not go to him! Why did I not? I know he would 
forgive me I ” 

The wind struck her fiercely, and the snow covered her poor, 
thin cheeks — so white already that it seemed quite useless for the 
snow to make them whiter. Her walk became slower, and more 
labored. She dragged her feet, and panted. 

Where was she' going? She did not know. Not to the house 
of the poor, charitable family who had received her when she fled 
from the strollers— dividing that small loaf with the houseless 
wanderer. She was not thinking of shelter now, but of getting 
away somewhere — of reaching some spot where she could lie 
down, hidden from all eyes, like a hunted animal, and die. 

“ He was noble — enough — to forgive me ! ” 

These words came in gasps, which showed that her strength was 
failing. She had tottered on, indeed, mile after mile, for more than 
two hours. Her pace now was a stagger. She had entered a wood, 
and heard water flowing near. This seemed to remind her of 
some other scene, and she murmured, with sobs, 

‘‘O my child ! my child !” 

As this cry escaped her, she stumbled and half fell. 

“ The snow — is blinding me !” 

It was not the snow. A step further, she fell upon one knee and 
one hand. She remained thus for a moment, her eyes closed, her 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


143 


heart beating more and more faintly. Then she rose, slowly and 
painfully ; took three steps ; fell upon her knees — then upon her 
face, with both arms stretched out. 

Through the opening between the tall cypresses the snow-flakes 
fell gently and quietly upon her. 




CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE UNFORESEEN. 

In life it is the improbable that always comes to pass; and 
nothing is certain but the unforeseen. 

Two persons playing prominent parts in this history w'ere riding 
out together, and went side by side, almost silent as they rode, 
across the hills and through the forests stripped of their gaudy 
tints. 

Since the scenes just described a month had passed, and the year 
seemed suddenly to go backward. That first brief snow had disap- 
peared like a dream with the sunshine of the following days: then 
the air had moderated ; a few chill days, a gradual softening of the 
temperature, finally a delicious, dreamy calm — as sweet as the 
spring, as mild as the summer, as pensive as the autumn — and 
the magical “ Indian summer,” the Greek “ nurse of the halcyon,” 
had come into the world in all its loveliness. Not a breath of air 
disturbed the slumbrous quiet. The faint, sweet splendor of the 
sunshine bathed the fields^ the forests, and the distant river ; and 
over all a silvery, translucent haze drooped, rounding every outline 
into beauty. 

The Indian summer makes the world fairy-land. Have the hard 
cares of the world left you the capacity to dream ? If so, it is then 
that you dream of many things — of youth ; of early loves ; of the 
faces 3mu will not see again, the hands you will not touch, the lips 
you will never more kiss 

Justin Harley had gone, on this morning, to Blandfield ; had 
found Evelyn Bland desirous of riding to the house of a friend a 
few miles distant ; offered to escort her ; and they were riding now 
through the mild sunshine, talking a little only as they went. 

A single glance at Harley must have shown anybody that the 
whole man had undergone a change. St. Leger had seen that 
change after Harley’s visit to the Blackwater Swamp, but now it 
was far more marked. All the old unrest, hidden under a calm 
sadness, had left him. His expression was gentle, patient, sweet : 
happiness, if not hope, seemed to have come back to him, as the 
sunshine had come back after the snow. 

The improbable had come to pass— the unforeseen had become a 
reality. 

144 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


145 


Harley had begun to love Evelyn Bland with the calm, strong 
love of a calm, strong man— the man of thirty who has felt grief, 
known disappointment, encountered every viscissitude, and lost 
the fresh impulse of the spring of life, but retained the mellow 
sweetness of autumn. The Indian summer typified his senti- 
ment — something mild, sweet and enforced— the second summer 
of the heart. 

The world smiles sometimes at these “ cases.” Youth, it is said, 
is the only age on which the absurdity of loving sits gracefully. 
But it is only the very old, or the very young, who say that. If 
the love of a man is the triumph of a woman, it is the love of the 
man of thirty in which she should rejoice. 

How this wonder came about, the man whose history we write 
never knew. But there it was. The hermit-like, the sad, the in- 
different Justin Harley, who had looked with antipathy, almost, 
upon every woman, had in that single month, in that poor little 
bundle of minutes, passed from carelessness to interest, from inter- 
est to affection, from affection to tenderness, and with every day, 
now, this tenderness was deepening into a strong and earnest love. 
If any one had predicted this, Justin Harley would certainly have 
laughed at them. But the marvel had come to pass. The blue 
eyes of the girl, her lips, her smile, the bend of her neck, the tones 
of her voice, these went with him as he rode, followed him every- 
where throughout the day, and haunted him in dreams. The voice 
of Evelyn in singing had first made his dull heart beat. He was a 
passionate .lover of music, and this voice of a country girl seemed 
to open for him a new world. He had heard the finest singers of 
the European capitals, but exquisite as the enjoyment of the music 
of the masters had been to him, it was not so exquisite as the ballad 
floating like a bird’s song from the lips of Evelyn Bland. She 
seemed to him to sing, indeed, as the birds sing — not to be heard, 
but to hear themselves. Either the fresh young voice laughed in 
some arch-capricious ditty, dancing with mirth, or died away in 
slow, sad cadences, touching the heart with sympathetic tenderness; 
and Harley listened, was enthralled, heard her singing still when 
he had gone away, until the music of her voice seemed ever 
present with him, as an old tune of our youthful years comes back 
and haunts us, and will not leave us any rest. 

So love dawned, deepened, reddened the sky of this man’s life, 
and changed him. His face showed little, however; he was as 
calm as before, only with the calmness was mingled that new 
patience, gentleness and sweetness. He saw her now and then, — 
riding to Bland field, at intervals only, with Sainty, the gay youth, 
who was an immense favorite there. There had never been a 

13 


146 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


word of love between them ; he only looked at her and listened 
to her. 

They rode on slowly through the mild sunshine, enjoying almost 
in silence the luxury of being near each other. Evelyn had never 
looked more beautiful. The exquisite grace of her tall figure was 
shown by the riding-habit which adapted itself closely to the 
slender form, and her hair fell upon her shoulders. The neck, with 
its narrow and plain collar, was bent a little forward — one of the 
girl’s greatest charms, for it gave her that gracious and maidenly 
air which a neck held stiffly erect takes away. Her cheeks were 
tinted with the blush roses of nineteen,which — the poets notwith- 
standing — has a fuller and sweeter bloom in it than seventeen ; 
her lips smiled, her blue eyes had the faint sweetness of the sun- 
shine ; when the exquisite young creature turned this lovely head 
over her shoulder, looking sidewise, she was all loveliness — if 
loveliness means the property that inspires love. Beauty is not 
loveliness ; the ugly are often lovely, and though Evelyn Bland 
,had always been called a “little beauty,” it was her expression 
more than her features which gave her her chief charm. You read 
her feelings in her eyes and lips — eyes and lips translating the joy, 
sorrow, laughter, tears, which chased each other in gleam or gloom 
through her heart. And such human beings enthrall. 

It was astonishing how the disproportion of age between these 
two persons had changed. Evelyn had burst, as it were, into the 
full fiower of womanhood in a month. In the same time, Justin 
Harley, cold, calm, sorrowful, resembling an old man at thirty, had 
grown young. Wonderful magic of love, that makes the young old, 
and the old young. You would have supposed them of the same 
age, nearly. All that was unchanged in Harley was that almost 
stately carriage of person. This he retained— his most marked per- 
sonal trait. It has been noticed before. In walking, he planted 
his feet firmly and strongly at each step, his head erect, his 
shoulders thrown back, and his eyes calm and steady, looking into 
your own. In riding, he carried himself in the same erect 
fashion. 

They made the visit which Evelyn wished, and returned toward 
Blandfield. The road passed across that leading from the Black- 
water Swamp, toward Huntsdon. It was not the shortest, but 
neither wished to cut short the ride. The poet — a very great poet — 
knew human nature w'hen he wrote “ The Last Bide Together,” 
and made his lover long to “ ride forever— forever ride ” with the 
one he loved ; and Harley felt that wish vaguely, scarcely realizing 
his own sentiment, forgetting the past, losing sight of the future, 
living only in the present. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


H7 


The road was the longest ; it was also the worst. Evelyn was 
riding a somewhat skittish horse and — it did not amount to an 
incident ; it was the most trivial of trifles ; but trifles go to make 
up life ! 

The road they were following ran through a hollow, ascended 
gradually, and passed along the edge of a bank, from which you 
looked down abruptly on a wooded rivulet thirty feet below. 
Horses are generally perverse ; they always select a dangerous spot 
to become frightened. Evelyn’s suddenly shied at some noise in 
the bushes, leaped sidewise, and would have plunged down the 
bank had not Harley seized the bridle. Evelyn was an excellent 
rider, but just escaped falling, with the help of Harley’s arm thrown 
around her. 

For a single instant his arm encircled the lithe flgure, which 
leaned almost on his heart, and her curls brushed his cheek. He 
had held her in his arms once in the Blackwater, and felt perfect 
indifference thereat. Now he measured the change. His heart 
throbbed , his face flushed like a boy’s. Their eyes met for a single • 
second 

Harley had just taken his supporting arm from Evelyn, when he 
heard a light laugh. 

He turned round, and saw St. Leger, who had ridden up behind 
them unheard, looking at them with wicked smiles. 




CHAPTER XXXVII. * 

ST. LEGER COMES TO THE CONCLUSION THAT HE IS CRAZY. 

Fanny, the daughter of Puccoon, the trapper, was sitting, as 
usual, at the door of the hut in the hills, when St. Leger emerged 
on horseback — after leaving Harley and Evelyn — from the deep- 
green magnolia-like laurels, approached, and dismounting, affixed 
the bridle of his horse to a bough not far fron the girl. 

At sight of him Fanny rose quickly, with a sudden color in her 
cheek. 

“ You’!” 

“ Yes, Fanny, yes !” 

“ You have come back 1” 

These words had escaped the girl’s lips in a sort of flutter. She 
took two steps toward him and stopped. Standing there, with one 
knee bent, the little feet, in their spotless stockings and coarse 
shoes, plain beneath the skirt, her head drooping forward a little, 
her curls covering her shoulders in tangled profusion, and framing 
the blushing cheeks and blue eyes, Fanny was like a picture. 

“ Are you glad to see me, then ?” 

St. Leger took her hand as he said this, and looked earnestly into 
her face. 

“ Oh I yes.” 

“ I really believe that you are ; and now, as I am tired, I will sit 
down. Go on with your sewing.” 

Fanny went back to her seat, and St. Leger sat down on a stool 
beside her. It was his customary seat. He had visited the cabin 
often now, and fell into the ways of things easily. Puccoon was 
almost always absent, hunting, as he was on this morning. 

“lam very glad to see you again,” said the girl, in her sweet, 
simple voice ; “ I was sure you were gone.” 

“ I did go— as far as Williamsburg.” 

“ And ” 

“ What brought me back? The intervention of the best of Go- 
vernors !” laughed St. Leger. “ Do you wish to hear about it ?” 

“Oh yes.” 

Here is the narrative, then, Fanny. As a great author says, ‘ I 
will be brief.’ I set oS with Mr. Harley, who was ready to weep at 
my departure, rode to the capital, and was about to sail, when I got 
a note from his Excellency the Governor, requesting me to come 
148 




FANNY HAD RESUMED HER SEWING WITHOUT FURTHER WORDS,”— P. 149 , 



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JUSTIN HARLEY. 


149 


and see him. I went ; I was received in his big room, with portraits 
of the King and Queen staring down at yon. I am now going to 
use some long, fine words. His Excellency, it seems, was in a 
difficulty. He wished to send to the people in London — the ministry 
they are called — a report of affairs in the colonies. This report 
must go by a sure hand ; I was a sure hand. The report would 
take a month : would I wait ? Now for some more long words. 
His Excellency proceeded to add that he would see that Mr. St. 
Leger got into no trouble. He would write to the Foreign Office, 
which would notify the War Office, which would notify the com- 
manding officer of the Blues, that the said Mr. St. Leger was absent 
on the public service ; by which means red tape would be respected. 
Do you know what red tape is, Fanny ?” 

Fanny shook her head, laughing, and said “ No.” 

“ And what the Foreign Office is, and the other offices, and all ?” 

The same ignorance. 

“ Happy maiden !” said St. Leger, laughing, “ and if you take my 
advice you will never learn. They are fearfully stupid things, and 
I am a fortunate man to be here with you, instead of in London 
with them !” 

If ever a human being’s expression of countenance verified his 
words, St. Leger’s did. He was looking at Fanny’s cheeks, just 
touched with the tea-rose tint, at her long lashes, as her eyes were 
fixed upon her sewing, and at the wealth of tangled curls, with a 
quite singular expression. On the fair head, and neck bent forward 
with exquisite grace, fell the dreamy splendor of the Indian sum- 
mer sunshine. It was strange— very strange— but St. Leger’s heart 
throbbed, and a sudden warmth came to it. 

“ Fanny !” he said. 

She raised her eyes and looked at him, turning her head slightly. 

“ I am going to ask you a question. Did anybody ever tell you 
that you were very beautiful ?” 

“ Beautiful !” exclaimed the girl. 

“ Yes.” 

“ / beautiful?” 

“Yes.” 

“ No, indeed, sir. Who would take the trouble?” 

“ It would not take much trouble,” said St. Leger, with a little 
laugh, mingled with a suspicious sigh. 

Fanny had resumed her sewing, without further words ; but there 
was a good deal more color in her cheeks. She seemed to be 
musing ; a new thought had plainly come into her mind. 

“ I don’t think it would be worth any one’s trouble to come away 
off here to the hills and our poor cabin to tell me any such thing,” 
she said simply. “ I am a child, and we are poor, common people.” 

13 * 


150 . 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


St. Leger shook his head. 

“ You are not a child — you are nearly a woman ; and whether 
you are poor or not you are not common.^' 

The girl seemed somewhat troubled at these remarks, and did 
not make any reply. 

“ For that matter,” said St. Leger, “ I am not of those people who 
believe mere rank in life makes any difference. A gentleman is a 
gentleman, and a lady is a lady, whether they live in a cabin or a 
palace — there is*no common about it.” 

St. Leger seemed to be listening to some one else speaking with 
his own voice. Here he was — he, the elegant man of the world, 
with deeply-grounded prejudices in favor of class — expounding to 
this child the doctrine of the French philosophers and overturners, 
then coming into vogue. 

“I am very glad you think well of us,” said Fanny, simply. “ I 
have heard and read of fine society, but never expect to see it. I 
shall live and die here in the hills.” 

“ That would be a pity 1” 

“ A pity ? Oh no ! I am happy — I ought to be. I have father, 
and he loves me, and — and — ” 

“ Go on, Fanny !” 

She looked at him with an air of exquisite candor and inno- 
cence. 

“ I meant that — I had you, too.” 

St. Leger felt a strong desire to take the small hand holding the 
needle, draw the child to him, hold her close to his heart, and tell 
her how much he loved her. He did nothing of the sort, however — 
not making the least attempt to do so — but he looked at her with 
the greatest tenderness. She turned away from hiifi thereupon, 
and all at once St. Leger saw her give a slight start. 

“ What is the matter ?” he said. 

“ That man again !” 

“ What man ?” 

“ The man of the swamp !” 

“ You are dreaming, Fanny ! Why, he’s gone I” 

“ He has come back !” 

“ Have you seen hiin ?” 

“ Yes, sir— twice. He has been away, but has returned, and I saw 
him pass across the opening in the trees yonder— in a different 
dress, but the same person — and he was looking at us!” 

“ I will find him !” cried St. Leger, starting up. 

Fanny caught him hy the arm. 

“ Oh no ! no ! You must not follow him. He always has his 
gun, and you could not find him either! Don’t go, Mr. St. Leger. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


151 


You must not go — come in ! He may be looking now — maybe from 
some cypress he has climbed !” 

It was evident that Fanny was really terrified. She drew St. 
Leger into the cabin, shut the door, and said : 

“ He frightens me ! Why does he haunt us so ?” 

The child closed her eyes, falling on a seat as though she were 
dizzy and faint. St. Leger was alarmed, and looked about him for 
water to revive her. None was visible, and he fried to open the 
door leading into Fanny’s little room in rear of the cabin, where he 
supposed he would have better success. The door was locked, and 
St. Leger was trying still to enter, when Fanny, who had risen 
quickly, caught his arm. 

“ No ! no !” she said, hurriedly, “ do not go in there I” 

“ Not go in ? Why not, Fanny ?” 

“ Because — please do not !” 

“ I was looking for water ; you were faint.” ‘ 

“ I am not faint ! I am very well now.” 

St. Leger smiled. 

“ Why did you lock this door?” 

“ I cannot tell you,” Fanny said, in a low tone. “ Come away, 
Mr. St. Leger ; do come !” 

She went and opened the cabin-door again, resumed her seat, 
and said : 

“ There is father coming home.” 

Puccoon soon made his appearance, saluted St. Leger cordially, 
and kissed Fanny with warm affection. He and his guest then 
entered into conversation. St. Leger mentioned the re-appearance 
of the man of the swamp, and Puccoon said, in a gloomy voice, 

“ Yes, he has come back, and trouble will come of it.” He then 
dismissed the subject, spoke of hunting, and at the end of an hour, 
St. Leger mounted his horse and rode aw’ay. 

“ I wonder why Fanny locked that door, and opposed my enter- 
ing so strongly ?” muttered the young man. 

- He pondered thereon for some moments vainly ; then another 
subject evidently occupied him. 

“ Am I falling in love ?” he murmured — “ in love with a child ? 
I, in love with Fanny ? Am I crazy ?” 

He tried to laugh, but did not succeed very well. 

“ I was laughing at Harley yonder. If he saw me, he would laugh 
at me! A child!— the daughter of the poor trapper! And that 
lofty moral discourse I made on the nothingness of rank! If my 
uncle the earl had heard it, what a jolly laugh would have come 
from him. And still I defy any one to find in this girl anything 
but an exquisite delicacy and refinement. And she has improved. 


152 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


She is educating herself. There is not a fault in her choice of 
words, or her pronunciation.” 

He colored as he thought of her, and then began to laugh. 

“ By heaven ! she’s a princess ; and Henry St. Leger, Esq., could 
present her at court, and not be ashamed of her, if she were a 
woman and not a child !” 


/ 









CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

EL DORADO. 

As St. Leger rode up the hill at Huntsdon, he saw Harley sitting 
upon the portico and awaiting him. He had just returned from 
Blandfield. 

The young man ran lightly up the steps, then suddenly stopped, 
looking at his friend. 

“ Harley !” he said. 

“ Well, mon ami” 

“ Have you found the receipt to draw down a part of the sun- 
shine, and get it into your countenance ?” 

“ What do you mean, my dear St. Leger ?” 

“ I mean that you are ten years younger than I ever saw you 
before ! I mean that you have discovered El Dorado, the fount 
of youth, or some rejuvenating halm. What is it ?” 

“ It is nothing ; yoij are fanciful.” 

“Fanciful! To tell me that I am fanciful when I say that you 
are an entirely different man 1” 

“ The merest fancy I” 

“ There again, being dogmatic is your only fault, Harley. Don’t 
I know the ordinary style of your physiognomy ? Haven’t I win- 
tered and summered Justin Harley for a lengthened period ? Who 
was it that hunted with that individual on the Danube, drove with 
him on the prado, smoked with him like a boy of the burschen, and 
tried to cheer him and couldn’t ?” 

“ Pshaw 1” said Harley, laughing, “ I am the same.” 

“You are apparently just approaching the age of eighteen, 
whereas the Justin Harley with whom I was formerly acquainted 
was a gentleman far advanced in life, grim, cool, melancholy, with 
something on his mind, one-^would have said ; not a jovial person- 
age, though a good fellow, I allow.” 

“ Thank you, St. Leger. I like candor.” 

“There again! who ever saw you' laugh in that way before, 
Harley?” 

“Well !” 

“ Do you know what will take place soon ?” 

“What?” 


153 




154 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


X <f‘ 

' “ You will make a joke ! — a joke ! I never thought the day would 
come when I would charge you with that enormity !” 

“Is it such an enormity? Well, dear, St. Leger, have your jest 
at my expense. I am glad you see cause to jest so. I believe I am 
in better spirits than I used to be.” 

“ You believe ! I see it and hear it in your f^ce, your voice, your 
laughter, your cheery, happy way of talking, Harley, and your lord- 
ship’s cheeks. They are as brown and ruddy as a ploughman’s.” 

“ That’s because I am well.” 

“And happy! Nothing gives flesh and color like happiness! 
nothing is more wholesome.” 

“ You are certainly right in that.” 

“ And what is the logical deduction, my boy ? You see I address 
you as a youth. The conclusion is — the irresistible conclusion — 
that you are happy.” 

“ So be it. There is nothing, I hope, so very criminal in the 
fact.” 

“ Has the prospect of returning to Europe in the spring, as I 
think you intend, anything to do with the phenomenon ?” 

St. Leger uttered these words with satirical smiles. 

“ Returning to Europe ?” said Harle5^ 

“ Yes. You have one dozen times, at least, spoken of your 
intention.” 

“Harley’s brown face was just touched by the least possible 
color. 

“ I shall not probably go back,” he said. 

“ Not go back !” 

“ I think not.” 

“ You ! remain here ?” 

“ Yes,” said Harley, smiling, “ I think it my duty to do so. 
Everything goes wrong in the absence of the master.” 

“Ha! ha!” 

“ What in the world are you laughing at, St. Leger?” 

“I am laughing at human nature — at the propensity of the 
featherless biped called man to make everything fit to his own 
wishes — at the success of a certain friend of mine in persuading 
himself that what he desires to do is the very best thing and the 
only thing for an intelligent person to do. You wish to remain in 
Virginia, and remaining in Virginia is your duty /” 

Harley colored again. 

“ Well,” he said. 

“ You no doubt mean to dedicate your life to drainage'^ 

“ I think I shall drain the swamp, my dear friend.” 

“ To bucolic pursuits ?” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


155 


“ They are healthy.” 

“ You propose to grew fat, and become a respectable justice of the 
peace, and vestryman, and arrest poachers and vagrants, and be 
‘ his honor the squire,’ and add to the population of the world.” 

“ It is humdrum ; but is it so absurd, this peaceful and common- 
place career, my dear friend ?” 

“ A truce to argument. When did it take place ?” said St. Leger. 

“What?” 

“ When did you fall in ?” 

“ Fall in what?” 

“In love !” 

Having uttered these words, St. Leger laughed in triumph, look- 
ing straight at Harley, who certainly did not sustain the glance 
very coolly. 

“ Pshaw ! my dear fellow,” he said. “ Of all things in the world, 
I would advise you to avoid this propensity to discover fancied 
mysteries, and form opinions "without sufficient foundation.” 

“ Fine words — long words, Harley. Whenever a man uses long 
words, I think he is dodging. You are in love I” 

“ What put such an idea in your head ?” 

“ I can see it.” 

“ Pshaw !” 

“ Nothing else explains this new expression in your face, Harley. 
What a face ! It positively reflects the sunshine on my own, and 
lights me up! And I don’t have to seek very far for the sun- 
shine I” 

Harley did not reply. 

“ You were riding out to-day with your sunshine, and of all the 
tableaux that I have ever seen, that equestrian group of a cavalier 
holding a damsel in his arms was the most picturesque.” 

With these words St. Leger began to laugh, went into the house, 
and disappeared, leaving Harley actually blushing. 

As we have seen, nothing w’as truer than the charge made by St. 
Leger. A new life had entered the frame of Harley. His cheek 
was ruddier, his eyes brighter, hj^ step more elastic ; he seemed 
growing younger and younger day by day. 

He rose to his feet, and looked out with dreamy eyes upon the 
calm landscape. 

“ Yes,” he said, with his gentle smile, “ my life has changed. 
What will come of this ? I know not ; but I do know that I shall 
not return to Europe yet !” 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

UNDER THE MOON. 

It was the afternoon of the same day. The sun was slowly 
dropping toward the woods, his orange light veiled by a dreamy 
haze, and the mild beams, passing through the windows of an upper 
room at Blandfield, fell upon Miss Evelyn Bland, who was just 
completing her toilet. 

She was going to a party in the neighborhood, and had bestowed 
upon her toilet that elaborate attention which young ladies, even 
the least vain or sedulous of their personal appearance, will do. 
Her beautiful neck and shoulders emerged like snow drifts from a 
cloud of translucent gauze, which veiled, without concealing, the 
rounded outlines ; her exquisite arms were nearly as white, and 
only touched by a delicate rose tint ; her hair was a great pile of 
curls, with pearls interwoven, a spray of the same ornaments sur- 
mounting the forehead ; her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled, her 
red lips wore a happy smile, and the surliest cynic that ever 
laughed at female loveliness would have acknowledged that the 
little maiden of Blandfield was a beauty. She scarcely wore any 
jewels — the gold bands upon her wrists were nearly all. In her 
hair a white rose, lingering, you would have said, to deck out the 
damsel for her merry-making, was relieved against her curls. As 
she stood before the mirror in the orange light, her tall and slender 
figure glowing in it, and glanced over her fair shoulder, Evelyn was 
like a vision of youth, and freshness, and joy. 

We writers of romances point to these fair beings, and tell how 
they are clad, describing the curls and the roses, but find it more 
difficult to speak of the heart beating under the laces. Let us say, 
only, that Evelyn was plainly happy, and not lay bare the tender 
heart, or inquire too curiously what made it beat so. Was it the 
thought: “He will see me as I now look to-night?” Was she 
thinking, “ if he only is pleased, I care for the opinion of no one 
else?” Some such thought came to her, for her cheek colored, and 
the lace covering her shoulders rose and fell suddenly. 

A bell rang. Then the cheerful voice of Judge Bland was heard. 

“Come! my dear. If you take such old gentlemen as myself 
out at night, you must go early and return soon.” 

156 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


157 


And crying, “ Yes, dear papa !” Evelyn seized her fan, cast one 
last glance, woman-like, over her shoulder into the mirror, raised 
her rustling train, and hastened down stairs, a gleam ot sunshine 
lighting up the house, and flushing the very tea-things with its 
spl'^dor. 

A ride of five miles in the roomy old family chariot, drawn by 
its four glossy horses, and driven by the steady old family coach- 
man, brought them to the scene of the festivity ; and it was easy to 
discover from the blazing windows, the forms passing to and fro, 
and the merry music of the violins, that the party or “ assembly,” 
as they then said, was in full progress. 

Evelyn ran up-stairs, and, emerging from her wrappings, quickly 
re-appeared, entering the drawing-room on her father’s arm. The 
fresh little beauty, all curls and roses, presented a vivid contrast to 
the staid and benevolent Judge, with his long gray hair, his thin 
figure clad in black, and his stately courtesy. Evelyn was not in 
the least staid; she resembled rather a child brimming with 
laughter. You could see from her glowing cheeks that the crowd, 
the rich dresses, the atmosphere of frolic, stirred her pulses, — from 
the little satin slipper tapping the floor to the music that she 
wanted to dance — and she had speedily a number of requests from 
young gentlemen to indulge in that ceremony with them. 

She had just engaged herselt for a number of cotillons and min- 
uets, when her friend the feeble youth urged his claims. Evelyn 
was good-natured — above all on this night-^and promised her hand 
for a remote set. She had just done so, when Sainty Harley, in all 
the glory of his college uniform, and a whole May-day in his 
laughing face, came up and engaged the next. Then Miss Evelyn 
plunged into the festivities of the night. 

Some abler hand must draw the picture of those old Virginia 
festivities, where mirth and music, laughter and bright eyes, made 
up a scene of so much picturesque attraction. They come back 
now — these old gatherings — to the memory of the aged like a breath 
of the spring time, or an echo from old years. How they danced 
and laughed in those long-gone hours ! How the sparkling eyes 
were brighter than the diamonds ! — the voices merrier than the 
music of the violins ! How the youths and the maidens bowed in 
the minuet, or ran with flushed cheeks through the old Virginia 
reels — minuets that are dead and gone — reels that have dropped to 
silence, even as the rose, the bright eyes, and the gay laughter are 
gone, and the youths and maidens sleep under the grass and 
flowers. 

At the end of every set Evelyn looked around her. At last she 
saw him. 


14 


158 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


He was standing in the midst of a group of gentlemen who were 
talking politics. A portly old red-faced nabob had him by the 
button. He looked over the shoulder of the old nabob, who was 
wheezing and arguing, and her eyes met his own. 

Ten minutes afterwards Mr. Justin Harley had offered his arm to 
Miss Evelyn Bland, and they were walking under the faint light of 
the crescent moon, around the white circle. 

What is said under the light of a crescent moon, when music is 
sounding ? That is a secret to all but those who speak and those 
who listen. Often it is some commonplace which is uttered, 
and the reply is no more brilliant. But what the lips do not utter, 
the eyes say plainly ; what the words give no hint of, the tones of 
the voices say unmistakably ! 

Other couples passing near Justin Harley and Evelyn Bland 
heard only a murmur. And yet those murmured words made two 
hearts beat ; and the faces of Harley and Evelyn glowed, as faces 
will when there comes a quick, delicious thrill to the heart. It was 
enough that they heard each other’s voice — that they were walk- 
ing side by side, her hand on his arm, in the faint light of the young 
moon. Evelyn went on slowly, with her beautiful head bent ; then 
she raised her eyes and looked at the moon; then, as though a 
more powerful magnet had attracted her, as if yielding to the sway 
of some master influence, she turned her head, saw that Harley 
was gazing at her, and for a single instant their eyes met in one of 
those glances which reveal what is passing in the soul. 

“ A voice called “ Miss Bland.” Then the voice was succeeded 
by a presence, and the feeble youth rusted up. The next dance 
was about to begin, and Miss Bland was engaged to him. He pro- 
truded his elbow ; Miss Bland had no recourse but to accept it ; the 
youth hurried oflf with his prize— but fate arrested him. 

Sainty Harley had or had not understood rightly. He met the 
couple, and declared that the dance was his own ; the feeble youth 
protested— his rival insisted. Then the feeble youth looked at the 
stalwart youngster, and was slowly convinced. Then Sainty Harley 
bore off his prize, laughing— heard the prize say, “ I am very much 
obliged to you !”— and was soon bowing through the minuet in re- 
sponse to the low and graceful curtseys of his smiling partner. 

Harley was looking at them, and his face wore a charming smile. 
They were youth and joy incarnate. The young man was naturally 
graceful, and danced admirably. His eyes were fixed upon Evelyn, 
his boyish face flushed with pleasure ; and the expression of his 
partner’s eyes was as happy as his own. 

Harley was looking at the boy with his sweet paternal smile. 
Then a slight cloud of sadness passed over his face. Was he think- 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


159 


ing that Sainty was better suited in age to Evelyn than himself? 
Did he regret his thirty years in presence of this rosebud of nine- 
teen whom he had begun to love so dearly ? These thoughts come 
to men sometimes, when they have passed their spring-time, and 
the woman they love is just entering it. But the cloud passed as 
quickly as it came. He looked at them again with his bright smile, 
and as that smile came back to his lips, he heard a voice say, 

“ There it is!” 

He turned quickly. St. Leger, who had danced until he was 
tired, was looking at him and laughing. 

“ There is what, my dear friend ?” said Harley. 

“ Why, your new look — the new Harley ! Confess now — don’t you 
feel like murdering that youngster ? He has the appearance of 
being in love with her himself 1” 

The music suddenly ceased, and Harley could not reply. The 
words of St. Leger caused him a slight chill at the heart. He ban- 
ished it instantly, however, and the smile came back as Sainty 
offered his arm to escort his beautiful partner out into the moon- 
light. As Evelyn disappeared she turned her head slightly, and 
her eyes met Harley’s. There was something exquisite in this flit- 
ting glance and the faint smile which accompanied it. 

Unfortunately it was seen by Miss Clara Eulkson, aged about 
forty, unmarried, overdressed, and in person and manner what is 
called stunning. 

At two o’clock in the morning, Sainty Harley might have been 
seen wrapping a shawl, with an air of the tenderest solicitude, 
around Miss Evelyn Bland’s lovely shoulders, and assisting her 
with devoted attention into her coach. 

The assembly was over. 




CHAPTER XL. 

A DRAWING-BOOM POISONER. 

About one o’clock on the next day, a light vehicle drove up to 
the door of Blandfield, and there emerged therefrom a lady of full 
figure, elaborate toilet, and a generally “ stunning” appearance. It 
is always to be regretted when a grave historian is driven to the 
employment of inelegant terms; but the yvord' stunning best de- 
scribes human beings of the appearance and bearing of Miss Fulk- 
son. 

Unmarried, but extremely fond of society, admiration, and gossip, 
Miss Fulkson went out a great deal — conversation being a necessity 
of her nature ; and her strongest trait, after her love of gaudy cos- 
tume and male admiration, may be conveyed in the statement that, 
like the ancient Athenians, she took her chiefest pleasure in hear- 
ing and repeating some “ new thing.” 

Miss Fulkson lived only a few miles from Blandfield, and was 
intimate with Miss Clementina — the two having indulged in many 
a delicious dish of gossip, with their dishes of tea. When Miss 
Fulkson now got out of her vehicle, and walked up the steps as 
rapidly as her portly form would permit— a fascinating smile upon 
her florid face, above which nodded a brilliant cluster of artificial 
roses — Miss Clementina, seeing her from an upper window, said, 

“ Clara has something to tell me.” 

She was not mistaken. 

“ Oh ! my dear Clementina !” said Miss Fulkson, rushing forward 
and kissing her friend with efiusion, as the latter entered the 
drawing-room, I am so glad to see you ! Where did you get that 
love of a neck-tie ? It just suits your style. I have always advised 
you to wear blue — it becomes you immensely ! Well — here I am at 
Blandfield, after being up all night nearly I I was at the assembly, - 
as Evelyn may have told you. It was an accident— entirely an 
accident, I assure you— I was persuaded to go against my will.” 

And Miss Fulkson, who had gone by herself, with her old driver, 
looked coy and mysterious, as if some ardent admirer had induced 
her reluctantly to accompany him. 

She then continued. Long experience told Miss Clementina that 
a certain amount of conversational gushing forth was necessary to 
relieve her friend’s mind when they met. She therefore contented 
herself with throwing in an occasional exclamation, which sufficed 
160 




JUSTIN HARLEY. 


161 


to indicate that she was listening with deep interest ; and the cur- 
rent of Miss Fulkson’s observations rushed along, broken into foam 
by the oh’s! and aEs / which were habitual with her. She ex- 
claimed, dilated, described — the party lived again on her vivid can- 
vas — then she paused for want of breath. 

“It must have been quite delightful,” said Miss Clementina, 
seizing her opportunity. 

^^Oh—h—hr 

And when Miss Fulkson said “ Oh !” she uttered the word with 
a little scream and a drawl, and her face burst into smiles. 

“ Oh ! — delightful ! delightful, I do assure you ! Everybody was 
there, as I said, my dear Clementina — even that singular-looking 
Mr. Justin Harley, who it seems has made up his mind to go into 
society again.” 

“ Yes, he seems much less unsocial than on his first return from 
Europe, Clara.” 

“ Much less ! — very much less ! From all that I could hear, he 
was a perfect solitary before he went away, and almost as much so 
when he came back. What did it mean ? Of course, Clementina, 
I never gave any credit to the reports about him.” 

“ You mean ” 

“ The reports that he was married, my dear. It is said that he 
was married— I really knmv nothing about it, but so much has been 
said on the subject by people, that I do not know what to believe. 
You see I am inconsistent — very inconsistent. Sometimes I believe 
it and sometimes I disbelieve it.” 

“ The reports ” 

“ Of his marriage, of course. And now they say, as you are 
aware, that his wife is still living, and was even seen in this neigh- 
borhood.” 

“ Yes.” 

“O/i.' my dear, how dreadful! How very dreadful! Married!— 
he, a young geneleman going into society, and paying his addresses, 
it would seem, to people ! Can anybody imagine anything so very 
romantic as that? One wife living, and another in prospect. 
What do they call it, dear Clementina. Big— big ” 

“ Bigamy.” 

“ Yes — bigamy. How dreadful I” 

“Did you say that he paying his addresses to any one, Clara?” 

‘‘Well— I really cannot say that he is actually addressing any 
one — but — do not give me as your authority now, dear— I never 
repeat things — but — ” 

Miss Fulkson actually stopped. But she shook her head in a 
manner which said far more than any words. 

14 * 


162 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ No one would charge you with malicious repetition of anything, 
my dear Clara,” said Miss Clementina, waving her fan a little ner- 
vously ; for she perfectly well understood what her friend meant, 
and knew that she would speedily come to particulars. 

“ Malicious ! I repeat a thing maliciously, dear? Never ! I never 
repeat anything, and if I ever speak of anything, it is from seeing 
it.” 

“ You mean that you have seen Mr. Harley ” 

“No ! Oh ! no ! Do not misunderstand me, dear. But can you 
be entirely blind? Is not Mr. Harley very fond of— our dear 
Evelyn?” 

“ I fear so,” said Miss Clementina, sighing. 

“You acknowledge it.” 

“ I cannot deny it, at least.” 

“ But it is so dreadful.” 

Miss Clementina sighed. 

“ With one wife living. Oh! my dear. Think 1 With one wife 
living ! 

Miss Fulkson paused to catch her breath, and having caught it, 
said that it was very dreadful ! 

' “ I hope it is not true — this report about Mr. Harley, Clara ; and 
if he has indeed formed an unfortunate union, and has a wife still 
living, I am sure he would not be so dishonorable as to pay his 
addresses to Evelyn.” 

“ Oh I I hope not, I trust not, I believe not ! I am sure he would 
not. But you know, my dear, these men are strange creatures. 
They have a — what do the lawyers call it — yes ! — a code — they have 
a code of their own. Mr. Harley would never act dishonorably — 
but ” 

“ I am sure he would not.” 

“ But suppose he considers himself morally if not legally divorced — 
divorced, Clementina ! He might not even then address our dear 
Evelyn or any other young lady, but he might — fall in love with 
her.” 

Miss Clementina knit her brows. 

“ Meaning nothing my dear ! — only to pass the time pleasantly ! 
Men are made in that way, my dear. They are very, very loose in 
their views.” 

This theory of Harley’s course evidently made an impression 
on Miss Clementina. She looked very much troubled — to Miss 
Fulkson’s obvious satisfaction. 

“ Whatever may be Mr. Harley’s intentions,” said Miss Fulkson, 
in continuation, “ I freely acknowledge, dear, that he cannot mean 
anything wrong. He is either unmarried, or is divorced, or his 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


163 


wife is dead, or he thinks she is dead — or — something,” said Miss 
Fulkson, vaguely. “ What is certain is, that people are connecting 
his name with our dear Evelyn’s.” 

This was significant. Miss Clementina turned her head quietly, 
and listened. 

“ But I ought not to be gossiping about this to you, dear,” said 
Miss Fulkson. “ Of course, I have contradicted these unfeeling 
reports ” 

“ What reports, dear Clara ?” 

“ That our dear Evelyn — but really it is too painful.” 

“ Please be plain.” 

“ Well, dear — now do not be hurt.” 

“I will not.” 

“ People are saying that whether Mr. Harley cares anything for 
dear Evelyn or not, it is very plain that she cares a great deal for 
him .'” 

“ A very harsh and unfeeling speech I” said Miss Clementina, 
flushing. 

“ Is it not ! Oh I dear Clementina, how angry it made me !” 

“ It was made to you ?” 

“Yes — don’t ask me who.- said it. I have said too much. lam 
very, very indiscreet ; but then my intentions are always good, you 
know, dear — I am so devoted to dear Evelyn ; and to hear that she 
is/ond of a gentleman whether a gentleman cares for her or not— it 
is too dreadful !” 

“ Indeed it is !” 

Miss Clementina uttered these words with real pain. 

“ I must speak to Evelyn about it.” 

“Do so, dear— it is certainly much the best course. Oh! how it 
pained me. I thought it my duty to tell you— but don’t give me as 
your authority. It would make our dear Evelyn so angry with 
me.” 

“I must certainly know if there is any foundation for these 
reports. I fear ” 

Miss Clementina stopped in great trouble. Miss Fulkson signifi- 
cantly shook her head. 

“ It was painful to see what went on last night,” she said. 

“ Last night ?” 

“ I did not speak of it— perhaps it would be best not to do so. I 
fear I am indiscreet.” 

This was Miss Fulkson’s ordinary prelude. Her friend waited as 
usual. 

“ It was nothing that anybody could take exception to. ’ 

“ I trust not.” 


164 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Our dear Evelyn and Mr. Harley were — walking out together — 
in the shrubbery,” said Miss Fulkson, with solemn significance, 
“ and I do not think this is advisable, do you ? — at least when gen- 
tlemen are reported to be already married. Oh ! my dear Clemen- 
tina, you should have seen the look they exchanged once as they 
passed each other ! I fear our dear Evelyn’s feelings are certainly 
engaged, and I would warn her to beware. People are talking — 
that is very dreadful, you know. I hear they have been riding out 
together — and now walking out together by moonlight — and that 
dreadful report — a wife already living ! — and to have our dear Eve- 
lyn’s name bandied about as fond of what did you call it, dear ? 

— of a big — big — ^bigamist !” 

An hour afterwards. Miss Fulkson returned homeward .with a 
tranquil brow. She had relieved her mind. 

Her last words had been uttered with a little scream. 

“ Oh ! ! ! my dear, dear Clementina ! Isn’t it dreadful, dreadfvX 




CHAPTER XLI. 

THE THUNDERBOLT. 

Evelyn had risen early, and walked out in the dewy grounds, 
inhaling with delight the fresh odors of the dawn. All nature 
seemed to smile upon her. The sun had just appeared, and touched 
with his mild splendor the great trees upon which still lingered 
the last leaves of autumn — golden and orange fading into russet 
brown. The grass sparkled with myraids of diamond-drops ; the 
birds sang, almost ready to believe that spring was coming; the 
cattle lowed ; and over the far river, flowing with majestic quiet to 
the sea, drooped a silvery haze, making it resemble some fine 
picture seen in dreams. 

And Evelyn was as fresh and beautiful as the morning. There 
was no pallor on her cheeks, no langour in her eyes. A delicate 
rose-tint just relieved her fair complexion ; the young mouth, with 
its red lips half-parted, had a delicious expression of sweetness and 
happiness, and her blue eyes seemed to reflect the splendor of the 
dawn. Happiness had surrounded her with an atmosphere of 
innocent joy ; her step was elastic ; her slender figure moved with 
charming ease and grace. She smiled on the world around her, 
giving it a part of her joy, and inhaling its freshness at every pore. 

The world is so old and hlasl now, that it laughs at these pictures ; 
but nature laughs at the laughers. Still, to-day, in spite of science, 
evolution-theories, and the terrible doubt of all things, hearts will 
beat and cheeks will flush ; and they throbbed still more warmly, 
and grew rosier in the old days, when the world was younger and 
less skeptical. 

Evelyn did not ask her heart why she felt so happy— girls are 
not introspective. She went along, simply absorbed in thoughts of 
the night before — of the tall figure and calm face of the man who 
had won her heart — of his smile, the tones of his voice, and the 
eyes which had looked into her own in the magical moonlight of 
the autumn night. The innocent child had given away her heart, 
and felt, with a delicious thrill, that his heart, too, was her own. 
This was all she cared to know. She did not look forward — gave 
no thought to the future — lived only in the present, clasping to her 
fond heart, as it were, that sweet, exquisite conviction that he loved 
her — loved her !— as she loved him. 


165 



166 - 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


When the smiling old Judge came out, she ran to him, holding 
out some wild flowers she had gathered ; and, clinging around his 
neck with the fondness of a child, exclaimed, 

“ Oh ! papa ! did you ever see such a beautiful morning !” 

And the day passed like a dream— Evelyn going to and fro, with 
light, elastic steps, singing, laughing, with a kind word and smile 
for all. 

Miss Clementina followed her with her eyes, and her face wore 
an expression of the deepest trouble. This lady had determined to 
act — and the innocent happiness of Evelyn made it almost impos- 
sible for her to do so. 

But Miss Clementina never shrunk from her duty. In the evening 
the thunderbolt fell. Evelyn had tripped up, singing lightly, to her 
chamber, and was beautifying herself with all the innocent pleasure 
of a child, before the mirror, when the door opened. Miss Clemen- 
tina came in, and taking her seat on the lounge near the window, 
said, 

“ Evelyn, I have something to say to you.” 

There are certain tones of the human voice which give premo- 
nition of coming trouble. Such were the tones of Miss Clementina. 
She had steeled herself to her disagreeable duty. She had never 
been less pleased with any undertaking, and had been so nervous 
as even to forget her fan. 

“ Something to say to me, aunty !” said Evelyn, half-turning, with 
a sweet smile upon her lips, and patting her glossy hair which she 
had just braided. 

“ Something of a very serious nature, Evelyn — of a very serious 
nature indeed.” 

Evelyn looked quickly at the speaker, her cheek flushing a little. 

“ Well, aunt.” 

‘‘Come and sit down, Evelyn. I hope you will listen to me 
attentively,” 

“ Yes, aunt.” 

Evelyn was not at all afraid of Miss Clementina, but she had a 
guilty conscience. She therefore came, meekly, and took her seat 
beside the elder lady on the lounge. 

Miss Clementina cleared her throat, and seemed just the least bit 
embarrassed. She waved her handkerchief in front of her face. 
She missed her fan. 

“ I hope you do me the justice to believe, Evelyn, that I take an 
interest in you,” she said, solemnly. 

“ Of course, aunt !” 

“ And that I have at heart nothing but your real happiness?” 

“ I am quite certain of that.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


167 


“Also,” continued Miss Clementina, laying a broad foundation for 
her coming discourse, “ that nothing would induce me to say any- 
thing to pain you, unless I considered it my solemn duty ?” 

“ Yes — aunt. Anything to pain me ?” 

“ I fear that you will be pained. But I must not shrink. Eve- 
lyn !” 

The young lady raised her eyes with a little tremor. 

“ People are talking about you, and laughing at you 1” 

Evelyn gave a slight start, and blushed crimson. 

“ Talking about me !” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Lauqhinq at me !” 

“ Yes !” 

“ Aunt Clementina 1” 

Indignation began to mingle with the confusion. 

“ This is a bitter hour for me, I assure you, Evelyn. I never 
thought I would live to see it. Yes, I wish to be plain. People are 
talking of you — and gossiping, and whispering, and giggling, and 
laughing at — at — it is best to tell you plainly, my poor child — at 
your fondness for Mr. Justin Harley !” 

Evelyn’s face had been crimson. It suddenly became white. 

“ That — is not true, aunt I” 

“ It is too true.” 

“At my — my — Oh ! I cannot use the word ” 

“ At your fondness. It is better to drop ceremony. And they add 
that this fondness is not reciprocated.” 

Evelyn uttered a low sound, which indicated with sufficient dis- 
tinctness the feeling of utter mortification and indignation which 
she experienced. Words seemed to fail her, and tears had not 
come yet. 

“ I will tell you plainly what I mean, and then advise you, to the 
best of my poor ability,” said Miss Clementina. “ It will not take 
me very long, and heaven knows I do not enjoy this conversation.” 

Evelyn was looking at the floor. 

“ Mr. Harley saved you from drowning, and you were naturally 
grateful to him, and received him cordially when he came. That 
was all right and proper. But even then I warned you against any 
intimacy with him. There were unfortunate rumors about Mr. 
Harley. It is said that he had contracted, when he was a young 
mart, an unfortunate marriage, and you are aware of the reports 
now prevalent that his wife has been seen in this very neighbor- 
hood recently. I do not wish to do Mr. Harley any injustice. I 
concede that he is apparently a gentleman of the highest character, 
and quite incapable of paying his addresses to a young lady luith 


168 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


one wife living; but I say to you, as I have said to my brother, that 
Mr. Harley may have been married, and divorced, or he intends 
becoming divorced. And as there is a diversity of opinion upon 
this subject, he may regard himself at liberty, then or now, to 
marry again.” 

Evelyn listened without a word. The hot blood had came back 
now to her cheeks. Her eyes were still fixed upon the floor. 

“ I know,'^ continued the elder lady, “ nothing whatever of Mr. 
Harley or his afiairs, and do not charge him with any intent to 
commit a dishonorable action ; but he is now under this cloud. 
Why he has not spoken of these things I do not know, but presume 
that the subject is painful to him, and revolts his pride, perhaps, 
too greatly to be alluded to. This is his affair — not ours. I say 
ours — for we have formed an unfortunate intimacy, I fear, with this 
gentleman. >He visits you, rides out with you, enjoys your society, 
no doubt, as a friend, and feels himself at liberty to enjoy it, I 
suppose, having no ulterior views.” 

Evelyn moaned a little. She was becoming lost in the maze of 
Miss Clementina’s arguments. 

“ That does not involve the least imputation of impropriety on 
Mr. Harley’s part,” continued the elder lady. “ He may say, ‘ I am 
married, do not mean to become a bigamist, but may enjoy the 
society of the young ladies around me ;’ or he may consider himself 
divorced— may be mistaken in his view of the law ; he may hold 
opinions of which I know nothing. That is not the point.” 

Evelyn’s head had sunk gradually. Her cheeks burned. 

“ The point is, that he regards you only as an agreeable friend, 
while you ” 

A stifled sound came from the girl’s lips. 

“ Do people say that ?” 

Her color faded, and, the hot blood receding, left the girl like a 
statue of white marble again. 

“Who has said that 

The voice no longer trembled. The pride of the Blands was 
coming to her succor and steeling her. 

“ I am not at liberty to tell you, but it has been said, and when 
such things are said by one person, they are said by others.” 

“ Yes,” said the girl, in a low tone, looking fixedly at the floor. 

“ It is not proper that such gossip should be whispered about 
your father’s daughter.” 

“ No.” 

“ And it was my duty to tell you and warn you.” 

“ Yes.” 

The eyes wiere still fixed upon the floor. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


169 


“ Men are peculiar in their views. Mr. Harley is in many points 
of view a person of high character. But he is lonely — an affair, as 
men call it, may have its attractions, for him. He has to my certain 
knowledge declared repeatedly that nothing could induce him to 
marry. And now he is paying you a certain amount of court— is 
amusing himself, people say, without any serious intentions, which 
may or may not be a necessity with him, while you — you Evelyn, our 
dear, inexperienced child, have become — people are saying it 
everywhere — have become — shall I finish, Evelyn ?” 

The young lady rose slowly to her feet. In a quarter of an hour 
she seemed to have grown ten years older. 

“ No, aunt, it is unnecessary to finish your sentence !” 

Slowly the cheeks fiushed ; a hot color replaced the marble. 

“ So people are talking of me ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ You know that ?” 

“ Yes, my poor child.” 

“ And laughing at me ?” 

“ I fear there is no doubt at all of it, Evelyn.” 

“ Laughing at my — my — Oh ! I cannot utter the word ! Yes, I 
will, at my — my fondness f” 

Miss Clementina sighed assent. 

“ So, I am a love-sick girl ! — I, Evelyn Bland.” 

Miss Clementina sighed again. 

“ I am pining for a gentleman who is amusing himself with me ! 
He regards me as a friend only, while I — I ” 

She stopped. Her face had crimsoned with indignation; hot 
tears came, and, throwing herself upon the lounge, with her face in 
her hands, she exclaimed, with sobs, 

“Oh! it is hateful!— hateful! So I am despised !— talked of!— 
laughed at !— the subject of gossip, of giggling. I am pining for one 
who cares nothing for me— a love-sick fool !— I, with all my pride— 
I. Oh ! it is too much ! I will never see him again !” 

Miss Clementina was almost frightened. But she did not regret 
her course, for she really believed every word that she had said, 
and had acted purely from a sense of duty. She therefore soothed 
the young lady, kissed her with the greatest affection, and suc- 
ceeded finally in reducing her to a state of half-tranquillity. 

“ What I have said to you, Evelyn, was very far from agreeable,” 
she added, “ but believe me, it was best to say it. Your welfare is 
as dear to me as it was to your dear mother, and young girls should 
be warned. Do nothing rash. Do not make a scandal by breaking 
off with Mr. Harley suddenly ; that will make the scandal-mongers 
talk anew. Receive him politely — not otherwise. Avoid private 

15 


170 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


interviews. In our circle of society, my dear, we do not have scenes; 
things are done quietly.” 

Evelyn had risen to a sitting position, and was looking at the 
floor with her wet eyes. There was no despair in them ; pride had 
conquered. 

“ It is quite useless to warn me against anything like a scene, 
aunt,” she said, in a dull, calm voice. “I shall not have an ea:pla- 
nation of any sort with Mr. Harley. His coming or going is quite 
indifferent to me.” 

H-er lips quivered a little, but grew firm again quickly. She 
then rose. 

“ I will finish dressing, and come down now, aunt. I am very 
much obliged to you for your plain speaking. I like plain speaking. 
I hope I shall profit by it.” 

Evelyn then proceeded to make her toilet, and Miss Clementina 
went to her own room. 

Two days afterwards Harley rode into the grounds in the after- 
noon, and seeing Evelyn seated in conversation with his brother 
Sainty on one of the old rustic seats, dismounted, walked across the 
sward, and approached them, smiling. 

“ You are a sly young fellow,” he said to the youth, after bowing 
to the young lady. “You disappear from Huntsdon, apparently 
seized with the desire to go and look at the state of the wheat, and 
lo ! I find you here beside my friend. Miss Evelyn.” 

Sainty Harley’s face expanded into a smile, and the smile ended 
in hearty laughter. 

“ There is but one portion of your excellency’s observation that I 
shall reply to !” he said. 

“What is that?” 

“ The slight and apparently unimportant phrase that your excel- 
lency ^ finds me here P ” 

“ A hit ! — a very palpable hit !” laughed Harley. 

“ You disappear too, my dear big old brother ! And one finds you 
here too !” 

Harley smiled again, with the least perceptible air of confusion. 

“ Well,” he said, “ I see I ought not to spoil sport ; and as you call 
me your big old brother, which I am, Sainty,— for I am big and old 
too— I shall go and pay my respects to Judge Bland, for the present, 
at least.” 

Evelyn did not make the least movement to detain him, or invite 
him to a seat beside her, where there was ample room. Her man- 
ner was inimitable— not cold, not marked in any manner, simply 
tranquil and commonplace. 

Harley looked at her in utter astonishment. She sustained his 



EVELYN DID NOT MAKE THE LEAST MOVEMENT TO DETAIN HIM.’'— P. 170 . 







JUSTIN HARLEY. 


171 


look with perfect coolness ; the proud blood of the Blands gave her 
strength for that. 

“ You will find papa in his study. Shall I go and tell him you are 
here, sir?” 

“ I beg you will not give yourself that trouble,” he said. 

And, bowing, he went off and entered the house. 

Two hours afterwards he and his brother were riding back toward 
Huntsdon. He was in a maze. Had he mistaken the mere coyness 
of a young lady for coolness ? 

“I will think it is due to that. What else could it be?” he 
murmured. 



/ 



CHAPTER XLII. 

SAINTY HARLEY BREAKS THE ICE. 

The two brothers rode on for nearly a mile without uttering a 
word. Both seemed buried in reflection. Harley’s were appa- 
rently calm, but the youth’s were plainly excited. He evidently 
wished to say something — was afraid to say it — and was blushing. 

At last he made a desperate eflbrt. 

“ Brother !” he blurted out. 

Harley turned his head and looked at him. 

“ Well, Sainty.” 

“ What would you say to— to — now you are going to laugh !” 

“ Laugh ? At what ?” 

“ Well, what do you think of my getting married ? There — it is 
out !” 

“ Married !” 

“ Yes, brother.” said the youth, blushing immensely. 

“ You, Sainty !” 

“Why shouldn’t I, brother? I’m nearly twenty— a real patri- 
arch !” 

The youth uttered a laugh, which was intended to hide his con- 
fusion. Hurley rode on for some moments silently ; then he said : 

“ There is no good reason why you should not marry if you wish. 
Sainty.” ^ j , 

“ I thought not.” 

“ You are somewhat young, but—” ^ 

“That is no objection, is it?” 

Harley looked at the ardent boy with earnest afiection and 
sweetness ; at such moments his face was charming, 

^ It is the merest question of policy. Marriage is — I fancy that 
it is at twenty I mean to say that marriage is always a serious 
matter, no doubt— not all roses and nightingales, but a practical 
business affair.” 

'>• “Yes, brother,” 

The responsibility should thus not be assumed too early ; but 
still, where there is strong afiection— an earnest love on each side— 
it is best, perhaps, to marry young.” 

“ You dear, old brother 1 listen to the words of wisdom 1” 

Harley smiled. 

172 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


173 


“What jumps with our inclinations is always wise and judicious, 
my boy.-’ 

“ I believe you.” 

“ Still, one should reflect seriously before taking so important a 
step. There are many things to be considered.” 

“ You mean ” 

“ I mean the character of the lady, her suitability, and her social 
position. I am not a very exclusive person in my views, but I 
think one should marry in his own rank in society.” 

“ Of course !” 

“ And if the young lady you are thinking of— for you are think- 
ing of a particular person, are you not ?” 

“ Ye— s.” 

“ If she is sweet-tempered, attractive, refined, — money is unim- 
portant, as .you will have enough — I can see no obstacle what- 
ever.” 

“ She’s all that, brother I” 

“Well— her name?” 

Sainty blushed tremendously. 

“ I’d rather not !” 

Harley laughed. '' 

“ Very well. I do not insist upon knowing. You will tell me 
when you desire to do so.” 

Sainty reflected for some time,’ blushing and confused. The 
reverie ended in a laugh again, and the words : 

“ You were speaking of what was to be looked for in the young 
lady. She ought to be of a good family ?” 

“ I think so, certainly.” 

“ Is— that is— what do you think,of Judge Bland’s family ?” 

“ Judge Bland’s !” 

“ Ye — s, brother.” 

“ Judge Bland’s J” 

Sainty felt that he had broken the ice. 

“ Yes, brother ! Judge Bland’s ! Why do you start so, and keep 
exclaiming in that way ? You said people of our class ought to 
marry into good families, didn’t you ?” 

Harley had become sonfewhat pale. 

“ Yes,” he said, in a low voice.- 

“ And that I was not too young?” 

“ I said so.” 

“ And if the person was sweet, and the rest, she would do ?” 

The youth’s confusion was such that he did not observe the un- 
controllable emotion of his brother. The strong frame was trem- 
bling, as if an ague fit had seized upon it. 

15 * 


174 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“ Well,” continued theyouth, “ I have not told you about it before, 
brother. You see I was a little shaky ; but but she is everything 
she ought to be. I think I’m getting on ; and now, as you make no 
objection — as I was sure you wouldn’t, brother I’ll go ahead and 
court her, and take my chance, and if I get her. I’ll have the veiy 
prettiest and sweetest wife in the whole colony.” 

With which, the laughing face of Sainty glowed ; and, to hide 
his blushes, he turned away his head and was silent. 

Harley had not uttered another word. He rode on in perfect 
silence, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and a slight tremor 
agitating his frame. A great despair had entered his heart, and 
rested there like a lump of ice. This, then, was what he had to 
look forward to — rivalry with his own brother with the boy who 
was more like a son to him, indeed, than a brother whom he loved 
with all his heart, and whose happiness was as dear to him as his 
own. This boy had, like himself, yielded to the charm of Evelyn’s 
beauty. He loved her ; perchance she, too, loved him ; but that he 
loved her was misery enough. Why had he been so blind ? Why 
had he not asked himself the meaning of those incessant visits of 
the youth to Blandfield ? How was it that he had not understood 
the significance of that interview, side by side, upon the rustic seat, 
the ill humor of the girl at having their interview interrupted, the 
whole miserable truth which now dawned upon him, or rather fell 
like lightning ? 

He scarcely asked himself if Evelyn’s feeling for his brother was 
such as the youth supposed it might be. The one thought was 
burnt into his brain that he, Justin Harley, was his brother’s rival. 

All the way back to Huntsdon this storm raged in his breast. It 
was the great struggle of this strong man’s life. On the one side 
passionate love for the woman who had become the dream of his 
waking and sleeping hours — upon whom he had suddenly poured 
out all the wealth of his large and earnest heart ; on the other side 
the love of his brother — the brother whose happiness he was to 
secure, or overthrow to reach his own ! 

The conflict was bitter. The storm tore him mile after mile. 
The evil spirit and the good — the two loves of his strong heart for 
Evelyn and his brother— wrestled in him and shook him. Then 
he grew still again ; the calm came. He turned to Sainty Harley, 
looked at him with a depth of affection which no words can ex- 
press, and, steadying his voice by a powerful exertion of his will, 
said : 

“ My dear boy, it is possible that you may not have understood 
me distinctly as to the matter we have spoken of on this ride. I 
can see no objection to the marriage you suggest. She— the young 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


175 


lady — is all that one could wish. We have no father, 'Sainty. I 
am an old gentleman, and you shall have my blessing. Now, let 
us not speak further of this. Tell me when your arrangements are 
made. Here is Huntsdown. It shall be yours on the day of your 
marriage, Sainty.” 




CHAPTER XLIII. 

DISINHERITED. 

On the portico a smiling and deferential personage, of about 
fifty, awaited Harley. 

“Mr. Shanks, from Lincolnshire— I think this is Mr. Harley,” 
said the smiling personage, in broad English. 

It was the engineer for whom Harley had written, in reference to 
his drainage project. The letter had gone quickly, enveloping a 
check — the engineer had come quickly, landing on the day before. 
He had evidently a high appreciation of Harley — and also of his 
check. 

On the next day, they mounted and rode to the Blackwater 
Swamp, which they thoroughly examined — making their way on 
foot where it was impossible to do so on horseback. 

They came back in the evening. The engineer was lecturing all 
the way upon drainage — still smiling and deferential. 

“ There would be no trouble — none whatever — in draining Mr. 
Harley’s fen-land. There was no backwater — that was the worst — 
dikes, sir ! dikes ! — that was what swallowed up the money. These 
were mere pond-holes and cat-holes, leaving out the lake. Surplus 
water from above was all. What was wanted was one main catch- 
water drain, with a few others, say one hundred— but smaller, 
much smaller, Mr. Harley!— to drain into it. One under-drain 
might be necessary. Yes, there would be no trouble— none ; and 
what land ! It would prove inexhaustible— inexhaustible, sir !” 

And the smiling engineer went on with hack-water surplus-water, 
pond-holes, cat-holes, under-drains, catch-water, main-drains, and all the 
technicalities of his trade. 

“ How much would the entire operation cost ?” said Harley. The 
engineer knit his brows. 

He could not make an estimate just yet. “A trifle, however ; that 
is to say, considering the value of the property, when reclaimed.” 

“ Give me a rough estimate.” 

“I should say between two and three thousand pounds, Mr. 
Harley.” 

Harley reflected; during which proceeding the engineer con- 
tinued to lecture. Harley nodded, and only said, 

“ I will decide in three days. We will see.” 

During their conversation a person had been riding about thirty 
176 




I AM THE MASTER OF AHY DISPOSITION THAT IS MADE OF THAT PKOPERTY, SIR. 



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JVSTIN HARLEY, 


177 


yards behind them This was the limb of the law who had drawn 
the mortgage for Mr. Hicks. As the engineer spoke with anima- 
tion, the lawyer heard what he said, and having turned off at a side- 
road, proceeded toward Oakhill, where he had some business 
with Colonel Hartright. 

When he went away from Oakhill, Colonel Joshua Hartright 
knew that the drainage project was in full progress — and the hur- 
ricane burst. He despatched a note to Harley, requesting a brief 
interview with that gentleman. His own age and infirmities, he 
said, would not permit him to visit Huntsdon. Would Mr. Harley 
be so good as to wait on him ? 

When Harley read this note, he said, 

“ There is a storm coming, I think.” 

“ He was not mistaken. Colonel Hartright received him with a 
lowering cloud upon his face. The old gentleman had become very 
infirm, and his temper was more excitable than ever — his observ- 
ance of the rules of social intercourse less exact. 

“ I am informed that you are about to drain that wretched swamp, 
sir !” he said, in a loud voice. 

Harley bowed with gravity, making no other reply than-- 

“ I so design, sir.” 

“ It is mad ! mad !” 

Harley braced himself against the hurricane. 

“ It will cost you your whole estate, and you have already encum- 
bered that, I am informed. Then you must look to— to— you 
understand me, sir 1— to your expectations from my brother’s 
estate.” 

Harley said, quietly, 

“ I haVe no right to do so, sir. I do not wish to look forward to 
your death.” 

“ My death will make no difference !— I repeat, will make no 
difference, sir 1” 

“ Harley was silent. 

“ I am the master in any disposition that is made of that prop- 
erty, sir !” 

The old man struck the floor violently with his gold-headed cane 
as he spoke. 

“ My brother left it to me to dispose of as I thought best ! If I 
thought proper you were to have the Glenvale estate of fifteen 
thousand acres— only, I say, in case I thougM proper .'” 

The voice had risen, and vibrated harshly. Harley’s silence was 
exasperating. 

“ Well, sir.” 

This reply seemed still further to excite the irascible old man. 


178 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“You defy me, then! You despise my wishes and act in con- 
tempt of them I You go to money-lenders and that sort of people, 
and say ; ‘ I shall inherit from my uncle Joshua Hartright one of 
the finest properties in all Virginia. Advance me money ; it will 
be repaid at his death !’ You say that, sir ! You say to yourself 
that I am old ! You say that in a few years you will have all this 
land, and throw away as much as you wish on your wild-goose 
fancies, or wasting your time in foreign countries.” 

Calm as Harley was, and resolved to control his displeasure, this 
treatment of him as a mere child began to exasperate him. 

“ I do not count upon your death, sir,” he said, with cold respect. 
“ I do not wish you to die that I may inherit your property. My 
own is my own, derived from my father. I shall dispose of it, I 
beg to say, sir, as I wish — without asking any one’s advice.” 

Having said this, Harley rose and made his uncle a bow. 

Colonel Hartright started up in an outburst of rage. 

“ Don’t defy me, sir 1 don’t defy me !” he cried. “ You forget 
that I am your mother’s brother !” 

“ I do not forget it, sir ; but beg you to remember that I am past 
my majority.” 

“ You will rue this tone to me !” 

“If my interest alone controlled me,” said Harley, coldly, “I 
should no doubt do so, sir. My honor and self-respect are more to 
me than my interest. I am thirty years of age, and although you 
are much older, and my uncle in addition, I must say that your 
tone is intolerable, sir !” 

With these words Harley bowed, and* left the room. He had’just 
mounted his horse to return to Huntsdon, when he heard a bell 
ringing violently in the mansion. This bell was rung by Colonel 
Hartright. 

A servant hastened. His master was flushed and wroth. 

“ Ride immediately to Mr. Hoskins’, and say that I wish to see, 
him.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Mr. Hoskins was the lawyer of all work of the neighborhood, 
He received Colonel Hartright’s message as he was sitting down to 
table. But Mr. Hoskins was a gentleman of business. His motto 
was, “ Business first, pleasure afterwards”— and the heated animal 
ridden by the servant impressed him. 

“ Is Colonel Hartright in a hurry ?” he said. 

“ Yes, sah ! he red in the face 1” was the grinning reply. 

This made Mr. Hoskins ride fast. He knew that Colonel Hart^ 
right never waited ; and he, Mr. Hoskins, never kept him waiting : 
he simply charged extra haste in his fee-bill. 


JUSTIN HABLEY. 


179 


“ Ctolonel !” said Mr. Hoskins as he entered, hat in hand, “ your 
servant.” 

“ Sit down there, if you please, sir — at that table — there is pen 
and ink.” 

“Yes, Colonel” 

“ I wish you to write my will.” 

“ Yes, Colonel.” 

“ I will state my wishes in reference to my own particular pro- 
perty and that left at my disposal by my brother, George Hart- 
right.” 

“ Ready, Colonel.” 

Two hours afterwards. Colonel Joshua Hartright had made a new 
will, entirely disinheriting Justin Harley. Ten words had cost 
him more than fifteen thousand acres of the richest land in 
Virginia. 




CHAPTER XLIV. 

MR. HICKS SHOWS HIS TEETH. 

There is something cowardly in fate. It blows a trumpet in front 
of the fortunate, and mercilessly strikes the man who is down. 

“ Mr. Hicks !” 

It was Mr. Hoskins, the limb of the law, who called out as he 
rode from Oakhill by the gate of the virtuous Mr. Hicks, lolling on 
his small porch beside the feminine Hicks, and surrounded by 
numerous little Hickses — for the most part dirty-faced. The paren- 
tal Hicks were very “ well off,” indeed, but he had “ risen from an 
humble sphere in life by his own unaided exertions,” he often said, 
and his mode of living had not changed ; his wife was still dowdy, 
and his children unpresentable. 

“ Mr. Hicks !” 

“Well, anything in the wind, Hoskins?” 

He came out and stood at the gate. 

“ Old Hartright has made a new will, Mr. Hicks. I thought I 
would mentioij it,” said Mr. Hoskins, confidentially. 

“ A new will ?” 

“ Disinheriting Justin Harley out-and-out — don’t leave him a foot 
of land !” 

Mr. Hicks knit his brows thoughtfully. 

“ Thought I’d mention it as I passed, Mr. Hicks. Private and 
confidential, you understand, Mr. Hicks.” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ And I may as well mention it— the old man is breaking fast.” 

“ Ah?” 

“ May drop off any day. Apoplexy.” 

Mr. Hicks scowled at the inoffensive road in front of Mr. Hoskins, 

“ You are right,” he said, replying to his own thought. “ I must 
foreclose the mortgages — at least £7000.” 

“ A trifle over.” 

“ They understood each other perfectly. They were talking of 
Harley. 

“ I have looked at his wheat, Mr. Hicks, and you know the corn 
and tobacco were both failures. He can’t pay you interest, and 
the estate is going down. A bad investment, Mr. Hicks !— a very 
180 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


181 


bad investment indeed ! I don’t know what you think about it 
but that’s what I think.” 

Mr. Hicks continued to reflect. 

“ A bad investment, you say, Hoskins ?” 

“ Yes, Mr. Hicks.” 

“ I don’t know about that, Hoskins.” 

“Ah?” 

“ Huntsdon ’ll pay it twice over— but — well, Hoskins, maybe you 
are right, and it is a bad investment. Precisely, Hoskins. The 
fact is, a prudent man, and the father of a family, Hoskins, it is my 
duty to look to my investments*. Hum !” 

Their glances crossed. A slow smile dawned upon the face of 
Mr. Hicks, who said : 

“ His uncle won’t help him !” 

Hoskins looked at the speaker. 

“ The property can be put in the market, Hoskins.” 

The slow smile had broadened. Mr. Hoskins started and gazed 
at Mr. Hicks. 

“ You are the best man of business, Mr. Hicks,” he said, with 
irrepressible admiration, “ that I have ever known in all the course 
of my life !” 

“ Much obliged to you. I generally look after my affairs, Hos- 
kins. By the bye, are you busy ?” 

“No, Mr. Hicks.” 

“ Then you wouldn’t mind getting down, Hoskins, for half-an- 
hour?” 

“ I am always ready to get down when you wish, Mr. Hicks.” 

Mr. Hoskins had already vaulted from his steed. 

“ Come in, then. There’s a trifle of rum, a good article, on the 
sideboard, Hoskins. Perhaps you would like to try it when we get 
through — business flrst, rum afterwards.” 

“ I am much obliged to you, Mr. Hicks. Certainly ! certainly !” 

• “ I’m rather awkward at the pen. With a man like Mr. Harley, 
things must be done up polite ; but make them plain ! I want you 
to write a letter to him, Hoskins.” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Hicks, certainly ! It will afford me pleasure. I 
should really like to see that high-headed fellow brought down a 
little ; and you are the man to do it, Mr. Hicks !” 

Mr. Hoskins entered what Mr. Hicks called his “ humble abode ;” 
pen, ink, and paper, also rum bottles and glasses, were produced, 
and on the next day Harley received the following note : 

“ Justin Harley, Esq., Huntsdon. 

“ Sir : It is with regret that I have to state that circumstances 
compel me to request payment of the amounts adyanced you, on 

16 


182 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


mortgage on the Huntsdon property. The said amounts, as per 
schedule herewith enclosed, footing up, with interest, of which a 
statement also accompanies this, to the sum of seven thousand two 
hundred pounds, seven shillings, sixpence. (£7200 7s. 6d.) 

“ I will state that it would afford me pleasure to leave this money 
longer in your hands, but having a payment to make, it is out of 
my power to do so. 

“ I therefore request payment of the amount in sixty days. 

“Your obedient servant, W. Hicks.” 

Harley read the letter quietly, and sitting down, wrote a brief 
note, informing Mr. Hicks that payment of the money in sixty 
days was out of the question, sending the reply by the messenger. 

“He is aiming to force Huntsdon into the market, and purchase' 
low,” he said, calmly. 

Harley was not mistaken. On the next day Mr. Hicks having 
sent for and availed himself of the services of Mr. Hoskins, wrote 
again to Harley as follows : 

*^Sir: Your reply to my letter is not satisfactory. I am com- 
pelled to raise the amount lent you on mortgage without delay. I 
therefore have to notify you that legal proceedings will be duly 
instituted to foreclose the mortgages, and recover the amount due 
as per statement yesterday, viz, £7200, 7s. 6d. 

“ Your obedient servant, W. Hicks.” 

Harley quietly put this letter in his pocket. 

“ Well, that is explicit,” he said, “ and it really looks as if I were 
ruined. Let me look things in the face. My uncle. Colonel Hart- 
right, has announced his intention not to carry out the wishes of 
my uncle George in regard to the Glenvale property, and has no 
doubt, by this time, executed a new will disinheriting me ; and 
now the only means left me of relieving Huntsdon from encum- 
brance, and transmitting it free from debt to Sainty, as I promised 
him, is taken away by this demand, which not only makes the 
draining of the Black water Swamp impossible, but forces the sale, 
at an inopportune moment, of my estate, which, under the circum- 
stances, will bring not more than half its value, and be bought by 
Mr. Hicks. I am then landless and penniless, for the estate is not 
entailed — I and Sainty ” 

He stopped, mused, sighed, and added : 

“ Sainty ! That is the saddest part ! It is nothing to ruin an 
old man like myself. I require little — he much ; for he is in his 
spring-time. Ruin ! That is a harsh word. With ruined people 
there is no marrying or giving in marriage !” 

The words seemed to touch an open wound; he shrunk, and 
turned pale. 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


183 


“ This is nothing — only ruin,” he murmured. “ I could bear this; 
but that has quite broken me down. So there is to be no more 
sunshine in my life ! — I thought a little happiness was left for me 
in the world !” 

He knit his brows and remained silent for a few moments. That 
time was sufficient for him to regain his calmness. Gradually his 
brows relaxed, his expression grew less painful, then the calm, sad 
smile came back to his lips. 

“ Patience ! patience !” he said, rising — a calm and stately young 
giant, in the Indian summer sunshine — “ that is, after all, the secret 
of life. I will try to do my duty — I shall not be here long. Let 
me be patient, and look my troubles in the face and thank God, 
whether I am happy or not, that a great crime was spared me by 
his all-merciful goodness — that I am not blood-guilty !” 




CHAPTER XLV. 

APOPLEXY. 

Two days after this, Dr. Wills might have been seen riding at 
full gallop toward Oakhill. , 

He had been notified by a frightened man-servant that Colonel 
Hartright had suddenly fallen down “ in a fit,” and, concluding at 
once that this “fit” was apoplexy, had set ofi* riding at a speed 
which caused his physician’s saddle-bags to flap up and down with 
the rapidity of his movements. 

Dr. Wills reached Oakhill, and went at once to the chamber 
where Colonel Hartright lay moaning, with flushed face and closed 
eyes. 

A single glance showed him that the old man had been attacked 
by apoplexy. He was promptly bled, and the patient was relieved. 

As he opened his dull, apathetic eyes, and stared at the doctor, 
he said in a low, hoarse voice, 

“ Is that you, George ?” 

“There, there, my dear sir, don’t exert yourself. I am Dr. 
Wills,’^ said the physician. 

“Yes,” said Colonel Hartright, pronouncing the monosyllable 
slowly and painfully, “ I know you very well, doctor.” 

He then turned his head and fixed his eyes, which were half- 
covered by the bloodless lids, upon a portrait of his brother George 
hanging on the wall opposite the bed. 

“ I thought you were George,” he muttered. “ You are Doctor 
Wills— my old friend, Dr. Wills. Am I sick, doctor?” 

“ You have been a little unwell, my dear sir, but it is a trifle. 
I’ll have you up by to-morrow. Don’t excite yourself.” 

The patient closed his eyes again ; and sitting down by the bed. 
Dr. Wills remained silent, making a gesture to the servant who 
opened the door to ascertain if any thing was wanted, to leave him 
alone with his master. 

At the end of an hour. Colonel Hartright again opened his eyes, 
and fixed them upon Dr. Wills. He then tried to move his head 
up and down. 

“ I know you very well, now, sir,” he said, with something of his 
old formality. “ I must have had an attack of fever. I thought 
you were my brother George. What is the character of this 
184 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


185 


attack, doctor? I think I can answer my own question. It is 
apoplexy.” 

The physician saw that his patient’s mind was perfectly clear, 
and that he had rallied. 

“ You are not mistaken, my dear sir : but the attack is not dan- 
gerous this time. You know I have warned you to expect some- 
thing of this sort. It has proved of no importance, however. The 
regimen I prescribed will ward off any future danger, I think.” 

“ Yes,” said the Colonel, slowly and faintly. 

He looked again at the portrait, gazing down at him^with the 
same uninviting stare. 

“ An excellent likeness !” he said. 

“ Very excellent, Colonel.” 

Colonel Hartright again closed his eyes. 

“ Strange !” he said, “ I thought you were my brother George !” 



16 * 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

ST. LEGER DISCOURSES ON LOCKED DOORS AND ROSEBUDS. 

On his return homeward, after his professional visit to Oakhill, 
Dr. Wills called at Huntsdon, and informed Harley of Colonel 
Hartright’s attack. 

The intelligence sincerely grieved hinj ; but the doctor relieved 
his mind by adding that the danger was over, and Harley con- 
tented himself with riding to Oakhill, sending up his name, and 
asking how Colonel Hartright then was. The old servant brought 
back word that his master was better, thanked Mr. Harley, and 
hoped to be about again in a day or two. 

Harley then rode back, not ill-pleased to have the visit end thus, 
without a personal interview. He had gone from a sense of what 
was due his uncle, and with a sincere sympathy ; he had been, 
however, a little fearful that Colonel Hartright would attribute his 
visit to interested motives. He returned, therefore, quite satisfied 
not to see his uncle, and finding that Sainty, who had been absent, 
had gotten back, informed him of the Colonel’s attack and urged 
him to ride and see him. 

The warm-hearted young man did so promptly, and was absent 
several hours. He came back looking very sad. 

“ Poor uncle Joshua!” he said, as Harley came out to meet him, 

he looks a great deal weaker.” 

“You saw him, I suppose?” 

“Oh yes ; didn’t you, brother?” 

“ I did not. I did not ask to see him, as I supposed it best for 
him to be quiet.” 

“ He was very kind to me, and said he had had a hard time, but 
was wellnigh over it, he hoped. Uncle is getting right old now, 
I reckon, brother, and I’m mighty sorry for him — he seems so 
lonely.” 

“An excellent old man — quick-tempered but generous. He is 
very fond of you, Sainty, and you must go and cheer him up when 
I go back to Europe. I think I will leave you here in command, 
and go back to my eternal travelling.” 

“You! brother? Return to Europe ! Why I thought you were 
going to stay in Virginia.” 

Harley smiled rather sorrowfully. 


186 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


187 


“ You can never count on birds of passage like myself, my boy. 
Did you never see the wild-geese flying south ? Whenever you see 
them, they are — on the wing.” 

“ Oh ! brother, what a disappointment ! I hoped to be with you 
always.” 

“ Thank you, my boy ! Always is a strong word. No, I shall go 
back — but we will talk of this another time.” 

“ Do give up the idea. You said I need not go back to Eton.” 

“ There is no reason in the world why you should. No, you shall 
stay here, my dear Sainty, in my place— but where is St. Leger?” 

“Yonder he is. He always rides in that direction— toward the 
Blackwater. I never saw such a rider ! I wonder if he’s in love !” 

And having fired oft this criticism of St. Leger, Sainty Harley 
disappeared, mounted his horse at the stables, and, in rather a 
sneaking and surreptitious manner, rode off toward Blandfield— 
Harley not observing, or seeming not to observe, the fact. 

St. Leger rode up the hill, dismounted, and came to where his 
friend was sitting. 

“ Here you are moping as usual old fellow I” he laughed. 

“Moping? I?” 

“ You appear to be.” 

“ I am merely lounging.” 

St. Leger looked at him, and a sudden temptation assailed him. 

“ Harley !” he exclaimed. 

“Well, my dear St. Leger?” 

“ Why donH you get married ?” 

Careless and devoid of all significance as the words seemed, they 
were uttered with a little embarrassment — of which feet the expla- 
nation was perfectly simple. St. Leger had never had his curiosity 
in the least degree satisfied with reference to Harley’s past life. 
Still came back to him, day after day, night after night, that ever- 
recurring question, “Is oris not Justin Harley married?” It was 
impossible for him to banish the subject, even absorbed as he had 
now become by his singular sentiment toward Fanny — a sentiment 
growing stronger as every hour passed on. Why had not Harley 
satisfied this curiosity, St. Leger asked himself. He w^as perfectly 
aware of its existence ; he had even offered of his own accord to 
narrate some day, soon, those unknown events of his youth. Why 
did he not do so? Was he ashamed of anything in his career? 
Had he been married, and divorced ? Had he been outraged by 
the course of the woman whom he had married — had his pride 
been mortally wounded — and did he shrink from speaking of what 
had happened, avoiding thus the cruel pang which the narrative 
would cost him ? 


188 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


One thing only was plain to St. Leger. The woman whom they 
had encountered on their way from Williamsburg was in some way 
connected with Harley’s past life, whether she were or had been 
his wife or not. Was she his wife f The thing was impossible, and 
yet there was the eternally recurring problem to be solved ! And 
he could not ask Harley. There are some things that are so easy 
that they are impossible. What was easier than to say, “ Harley, I 
am your sincere friend : there are reports about you — you know 
that. Are you or are you not married ?” And what more impossi- 
ble after Harley’s declaration that he regarded such intrusion as 
“ ill-bred ” and offensive ! 

So the unfortunate St. Leger pined away with unsatisfied curi- 
osity, and consoled himself amid all this mystery with visits to 
Fanny! At last, however, he had summoned courage, had ap- 
proached the subject at last, had said, 

“ Harley 1 why don’t you get married ?” 

Harley looked at him quietly. 

“ I have no intention of marrying. I have told you that more 
than once, my dear friend,” he said. 

“ I know that you have ; but the subject is a highly interesting 
one.” 

“ To you perhaps. It is perfectly natural that you, a young man, 
should think of such things, and I am not in the least surprised ; 
but as naturally the subject possesses less interest for me.” 

“ Hum 1” 

“ You don’t seem to be convinced.” 

“ I am not.” 

“ I am sorry. See what it is to have an old ph*ilosopher for a 
friend. But let us talk of something else.” 

“ No, let us talk of this— the subject is interesting.” 

“ Very well.” 

“ Once more — why don’t you marry ?” 

“ I am an old gentleman— that alone is sufficient.” 

“ You are in the bloom of manhood.” 

“ I am past thirty.” 

“ Which is a man’s prime.” 

“ Have it as you wish.” 

There was a short pause. St. Leger then said : 

“You are a swordsman of the first skill, Harley, and an op- 
ponent must press home with you. Will you answer me a plain 
question ?” 

“Yes,” was the quiet reply. 

“ An ill-bred question ?” 

“ It will not be ill-bred iiyou ask it.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


189 


“ Humph !” muttered St. Leger, “ that’s the way I’m always dis- 
armed !” 

“Well,” he said, “I’ll venture. The question is not ill-bred, I 
hope, but it is plain. Are you — paying your addresses to Evelyn 
Bland?” 

“ Certainly not,” said Harley, the color suddenly fading out of 
his face. 

“ You are not?” 

“ I am not.” 

St. Leger was defeated on the very threshold. 

“ And you have no intention of doing so ? I am a vulgar fellow 
to be intruding in this offensive way, Harley ; but I mean well.” 

“ You are never intrusive, friend, and never ill-bred ; you are, on 
the contrary, one of the best-bred persons I have ever known,” said 
Harley, calmly. “ You have been full of curiosity in reference to 
myself and my past life ever since I have known you, and you 
have never asked me a single indiscreet question, in spite of all this 
mystery, which I hope soon now to dispel. I have shrunk from 
so doing for many reasons — one is that the narrative will be an 
extremely painful one to me. Let that suffice for the present, St. 
Leger. To the questions you have asked me I have replied without 
difficulty— I am even glad that you have asked them. No ! I do 
not design marrying.” 

“ I really don’t see why you should not think of matrimony, if 
you wish,” said the baffied St. Leger. “ You are young, you have a 
warm heart, you are rich.” 

Harley shook his head. 

“ I am very far from rich ; but still money is the least obstacle— I 
have never thought much of it.” 

“ I have,” said St. Leger, laughing. “ It is devilish disagreeable 
to be without it— I have tried it.” 

“ Yes ; but still the difference between the poor man and the rich 
man is not so great as the poor man thinks. Daily bread and 
shelter and clothing are necessary to us all ; but after this, what is 
really necessary ? And the true luxuries of life are open to all— 
the sunshine, the songs of birds, and the laughter of children— the 
simple things of life. The poor man has these, and the rich man 
can have no more.” 

St. Leger laughed. 

“ One of the poor man’s luxuries depends on matrimony — I mean 

the laughter of children.” 

« Yes— every man dreams of that music, I suppose, sometimes— 
I sliall never hear the laughter of my own.” 

“Why not?” 


190 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ The subject is a waste of time, friend. Let us change it. Where 
have you been?” 

St. Leger gave up in despair. 

“ Toward the Blackwater, and I stopped at Puccoon’s in returning. 
By-the-way, Harley, I have some singular intelligence for you.” 

“ Indeed ?” 

“ Puccoon’s friend — or foe — the man of the swamp, as he calls 
him, has returned.” 

Harley turned his head quickly, and looked at St. Leger. 

“ Are you certain of that?” he said. 

“ Yes.” 

Harley pondered for some moments. 

“ I know he has not been seen for some time,” he at length said. 

“ You have seen him, I suppose ?” 

“I?” said Harley. “Yes.” 

“ You know him, perhaps,” said St. Leger, smiling. 

“ Yes,” said Harley ; “an indiscreet reply, for it will lead you to 
think that I have mysteries within mysteries — that all about me is 
mystery !” 

“ My dear Harley, I really don’t know what to think, and whether 
thinking is not a high crime and misdemeanor. Pardon me, I only 

mean nothing ! I give you a piece of news simply. The myth, 

goblin, chimera, illusion, or streak of moonshine, known to our 
friend Puccoon as the man of the swamp — whether swamp angel or 
swamp devil I really don’t know— has been absent, has returned, 
and has resumed his eccentric habit of lurking around the abode 
of Puccoon— for what reason, or with what object, I don’t know.” 

Harley remained silent. He was evidently reflecting. 

“ There is a person living in the marshes, St. Leger, and I am 
personally acquainted with him,” he said at length ; “lam also 
cognizant of the fact that he has been away — or appears to have 
been away— from the neighborhood. There my knowledge ends. 
Why he haunts our friend Puccoon I don’t know. At least you 
have, on this point, a plain statement.” 

“ Which I do not ask, my dear Harley. Let us leave the subject. 
But, as we are speaking of strange things, I have another item 
pertaining to the domain of Wonderland — there is somebodv living 
at Puccoon’s.” 

“ Somebody ?” 

“ Besides himself and Fanny.” 

“ Who?” 

“ There is the mystery.” 

Harley turned his head. 

“ Tell me about your mystery.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


191 


“ I shall do so in a very few words. Some one occupies Fanny’s 
room — the small apartment behind the cabin.” 

And St. Leger proceeded to speak of the day when Fanny had 
become faint at sight of the man of the swamp, and he had 
attempted to procure the water to revive her. It was singular that 
her door should be closed and locked — a practice which St. Leger 
knew to be unusual with her; and still stranger that when he 
attempted to enter, the girl should exhibit that sudden emotion, 
calling out to him not to do so. He had returned to Huntsdon, he 
said, wondering at all this ; and having ridden to Puccoon’s cabin 
again on this day, had distinctly heard the voices of two persons, 
during the absence of Puccoon, as he rode toward the cabin. At 
the sound of his horse’s hoofs the voices had ceased ; silence had 
followed, and when he dismounted and walked to the door, Fanny 
came'out to meet him, blushing and looking a little confused, and 
the door of her chamber was again closed. ^ 

“Well, that is an odd incident,” said Harley, “and I must say 
the whole thing is incomprehensible to me. Who can be the other 
inmate of the cabin ? But, after all, it is not my affair.” 

“ I will find !” said St. Leger, knitting his brows. Harley looked 
at his friend with a slight smile. 

“ You seem really interested in— shall I say in Puccoon or in — 
Fanny, St. Leger !” 

“ Pshaw !” 

“ You see I am' intrusive, if you like the word, in my turn ; but I 
am merely jesting. Not to say, my dear friend, that anybody would 
be absurd to be fond of Fanny. She’s a little duchess, or what 
is better, a sweet and innocent maiden.” 

“ Is she not ?” 

“ Indeed she is.” 

- St. Leger actually colored a little, and his glance stole to a rose- 
“bud— the last of the year— which Fanny had placed in his button- 
hole. 

“ Why is not a rosebud a rosebud whether it grows in a garden or 
in a Wildwood !” he said. “ For my part, Harley, I look only at 

the color, and think of the perfume but we will talk of flowers 

afterwards. I’m hungry, and want some claret !” 




CHAPTER XLVII. 

BUSINESS. 

Hour after hour on this night, and long after midnight, St. Leger 
heard Harley walking to and fro in his chamber. 

That slow, deliberate, never-ceasing sound of steps followed the 
young man as he fell asleep, and mingled with his dreams — dreary, 
monotonous, haunting him. 

Harley was indeed passing through one of those crises which 
occur at times in all men’s lives. He was revolving in his mind 
every detail of his situation, and striving to find in the chaos 
which seemed to surround him some little tract of firm ground 
whereon to plant his feet. 

This noble and proud nature found itself hampered, thwarted, 
subjected, apparently, to all the spites of fate. Struck heavily at 
once in his heart and in his personal fortunes, losing the woman 
whom he loved passionately, and seeing the old family estate, 
which he hoped to transmit to his brother, about to pass from him, 
but for his serene strength of will, Harley would have yielded to 
despair, and abandoned all further struggle. 

Instead of yielding, he looked his troubles in the face, and tried 
to save a plank from the wreck, as'brave men will. 

He kept up his slow pacing to and fro until nearly daylight. He 
then slept for two or three hours, and oame down, meeting St. 
Leger with his habitual calmness and cordiality. 

“ Do you l^now, my dear friend,” he said, “ that I have deter- 
mined to go back to Europe with you ?” 

“ To Europe I You will return — and so soon, Harley?” 

“ Yes. I have become a perfect Bohemian, I am afraid. I am 
restless— of no use here ; perhaps I shall be of as little there, but I 
shall be more at home. A sad statement, is it not ?” 

“ Yes.” 

St. Leger looked at his friend curiously. Did he care nothing, 
after all, for Evelyn Bland? Had she discarded him ? What had 
happened ? 

“ You are in earnest in this scheme, Harley?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I need not tell you that, personally, nothing could delight me 
more, as I shall have your company ; but I must say that I did not 
expect to have it.” 


192 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


193 


“ I am capricious, you see.” 

“ I see that something has worked a change in you suddenly, my 
dear friend. Be candid. What is it ?” 

“ A change ?” ' 

“ You were as bright as a May morning a few days since — now*, 
you are as gloomy.” 

“ Pshaw ! You are full of fancies, St. Leger I” 

“ And you of evasions !” * 

St. Leger spoke with real mortification. 

“ You do not deserve to have a friend, Harley, for you never 
confide in anybody. You keep your griefs and joys, your happi- 
ness and your troubles, all shut up in your own breast.” 

Harley’s countenance assumed an expression of cordial regard, 
and he looked kindly at St. Leger. 

“ Friend,” he said, “ I have never been fond of concealment, and 
was never what is called secretive. If I do not speak of some 
things, it is because I find it painful, or think it best that I should 
not — even to you. Yes, something troubles me, to be frank with 
you. I will tell you some day what it is. And now amuse your- 
self as you can. I shall be busy to-day.” 

Harley then sent for Mr. Shanks, the engineer, who had re- 
mained at Huntsdon, and informed him that circumstances wholly 
unforeseen would prevent the drainage of the Blackwater Swamp. 
He should not be subjected to loss, however, and would be fully 
remunerated for his time and trouble in coming to Virginia, the 
season still permitting him to return to England. 

Mr. Shanks smiled in a friendly way. Harley had indeed made 
a strong friend of him by his cordial and kindly manners. 

“ I don’t want remuneration, Mr. Harley.' You have paid my 
expenses,” he said, “ and I am offered a job which will pay me as 
well as the draining, sir.” 

“What is that?” 

“ Your uncle. Colonel Hartright, wants his whole property and 
the Glenvale estate surveyed, and plats drawn up, sir.” 

With which Mr. Shanks proceeded to explain. He had become 
intimate with Saunders— Harley’s old overseer— and Mr. Saunders 
had made him acquainted with Mr. Jackson— Colonel Hartright’s 
overseer— and Mr. Jackson had gone straight to his employer, and 
said : 

“ Colonel, here is the very man you want— a number one sur- 
veyor to make the surveys and maps of the whole property.” 

Thereupon Colonel Hartright had sent for Shanks— had been 
pleased with that personage, had offered him the place of surveyor, 
and Harley’s announcement had enabled him to accept it. 

17 


194 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“Very well,” said Harley. “I am glad that it so happens, Mr. 
Shanks. Make your home with me, if you like me well enough.” 

“ I like you very well, indeed, Mr. Harley,” said Mr. Shanks, 
with a low how. “ I’ll be too busy ; but I’ll come and see you, and 
am much obliged to you, Mr. Harley.” 

Mr. Shanks bowed again, went away, and closed his bargain 
with Colonel Hartright, who was slowly recovering from his 
attack. 

As Mr. Shanks left his new employer, a coach, drawm by four 
horses, stopped in front of Oakhill, and Judge Bland got out of it. 

The Judge, who had retired some years before from the bench, 
and resumed the practice of his profession, had been in Williams- 
burg attending the session of the General Court. 

On the preceding day, the old gray-haired clerk of the court — a 
very elegant gentleman, as the old-time clerks often were — said to 
him, 

“ I think you have forgotten that business of Colonel Hart- 
right’s, Judge — the conveyance in Brown vs. Hartright; you are 
counsel for the Colonel,” 

“ Yes, yes ! I must see him — my notes are mislaid.” 

“ The old gentleman has had a bad attack, it is said,” continued 
the chatty old clerk. 

“ Very bad ; but he is much better.” 

“ By the bye. Judge, I think young Harley is his nephew — 
Harley of Huntsdon.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He is in a bad way, I fear. Hicks— you know Hicks— has filed 
a bill asking for a decree to sell Huntsdon, to satisfy a mortgage — 
over seven thousand pounds.” 

“ Is it possible !” 

“ Filed to-day — Hoskins for complainant.” 

“Seven thousand pounds! Absurd! The Huntsdon estate is 
worth treble the money !” 

“ Well, the bill is filed. The object of Hicks is plain. He is a 
notorious old Shylock, and no doubt aims at buying in the estate.” 

“ Hum !” said Judge Bland. 

“ It would be a shame.” 

“ A shame indeed ! And it shall not be done if I can prevent it. 
Let me see the bill, Mr. Dance.” 

The Judge looked at the bill, and, after carefully reading it, knit 
his brows. 

“ A pity — seven thousand pounds ! But it is monstrous to ask 
for a decree to sell Huntsdon. The Court will never hear of such 
a thing.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


195 


Mr. Dance shook his head. 

“ I don’t know. Practice has changed. Better see Mr. Harley, 
and advise him. We knew his father, you know.” 

“ I certainty shall, Mr. Dance.” 

And Judge Bland shook his head, uttering three distinct “ hums” 
as he folded up the document and returned it to the old clerk. 

He reached Oakhill just at dinner time, and discussed Colonel 
Hartright’s business over a glass of wine. When this subject was 
exhausted, he informed his host of the attempt on Mr. Hicks’ part 
to sell Huntsdon. 

“ Sell Huntsdon !” exclaimed the old colonel. 

“ To satisfy a claim of over seven thousand pounds.” 

“ Good heavens !” cried Colonel Hartright, “Justin Harley surely 
does not owe that amount !” 

“ It seems so.” 

“ My dear sir, it is impossible ! It is outrageous I A wasteful, 
extravagant, incorrigible spendthrift !” 

“ Careless in money matters, as his father was before him. But 
I have a very high opinion of Justin Harley, Colonel, — a very 
high opinion indeed !” 

“ I am sorry to say that my opinion differs from yours. Judge. 
The most opinionated — the hardest-headed young man I ever 
knew. He has never shown his sense in any affair but one — and 
that is in abandoning a wild goose project.” 

“ You refer to ” 

“This drainage scheme — emptying the water from the Black- 
water Swamp. The man who came from England to undertake it 
has just been here, and informs me it is given up.” 

“ I am very glad of it.” 

“And I ; for Justin Harley is my sister’s son, after all. And he 
is to be ruined ! And by Hicks ! Hicks is a rascal. I have told 
him so. He had the audacity to come and propose lending me 
money. I told him if he entered my doors again I would kick him 
out !” 

And Colonel Hartright looked irate. 

“ Sell Huntsdon ? — Hicks!” 

“ I hope to disappoint the project, my dear sir, but the law is 
uncertain. At least I will try— and now I must take my leave. 
Colonel.” 

The old gentlemen thereupon shook hands cordially, and Judge 
Bland was soon rolling away in his coach. The sun was declining 
as he passed Huntsdon. As he came opposite the gate, Harley 
rode out, going in the opposite direction. 

They exchanged a cordial salute. 


196 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“My good genius must have sent you,” said Harley. “I was just 
thinking of you, and wishing to see you. I need your aid.” 

“ I will serve you, if I can, most readily and cheerfully.” 

Harley told him of Mr. Hicks’ note, and the Judge nodded. 

“ He has already filed his bill— a gentleman of despatch— I have 
looked at it.” 

“ And your advice is ” 

“ To come and see me— this is Saturday— say on Monday. The 
afternoon, if agreeable to you, Mr. Harley.” 

“ Perfectly sir. You will understand, that I wish, if possible, to 
avert this proceeding, or delay it, and thus prevent a peremptory 
sale of the property, which will 'easily pay the debt in a few 
years.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Another favor, sir. I wish to have a deed drawn up— and this 
it may possibly be convenient to you to have ready for me when I 
come.” 

“A deed ?” 

“ Conveying my entire estate, real and personal, to my brother 
St. George.” 

“ To your brother ! Your whole estate?” 

“ I am going to Europe, and have a conviction tbat I will not 
live long. My course may seem capricious and the result of whim, 
but it is not. Will you treat my request as that of a man who has 
deliberately decided, after long reflection, upon the course he 
means to pursue, and prepare the deed ?” 

“ Hum ! hum ! hum ! Why do you go to Europe, my young 
friend?” 

Harley smiled rather sadly. 

“ I have grown to be a wanderer ; Mr. Hicks may indulge my 
brother ; any one of a hundred reasons, my good old friend. Will 
you preyare my deed for me ?” 

The Judge looked at him. Something in Harley’s expression 
convinced him that argument was useless. 

“I will prepare it,” he said; “but I require a copy of your 
father’s will.” 

“ I have one, and will bring it.” 

“ Give up this sad determination — exile is a sorrowful thing — 
very sorrowful, Mr. Harley.” 

“ Is life, under any conditions, so very gay, my dear sir ? But 
this is unprofitable talk. I am detaining you.” 

And, saluting Judge Bland with profound respect, Harley rode 
on. 



CHAPTER XL VIII. 

WHAT HARLEY FOUND. 

Harley rode toward the Blackwater Swamp. 

“So much for that business !” he said. “ My boy will be a better 
match, and my glum face will not trouble anybody, since I shall 
be in Europe. Now for a last duty. When this is done, there will 
no longer be a tie attaching me to Virginia, and I shall be ready to 
go with St. Leger at any moment.” 

An expression of deep sadness had settled upon his face, and 
the landscape around him was in unison with his mood. The sun- 
was slowly sinking, and the long shadows of the cypresses and 
laurels fell in black bars across the lonely road which he was 
pursuing. The air was perfectly still, and a dreamy haze envel- 
oped every object — the last days of the brief Indian summer were 
at hand, and the year was slowly going to his death, the faint, 
sweet sunshine lighting up the landscape like a smile on the face 
of a dying man. 

“ Sad, very sad !” Harley murmured, “ and this business I am on 
is saddest of all. Where is that poor girl ? She has disappeared 
like a shadow. That stroller, so long the master of her destiny, 
knows nothing of her whereabouts, or he would have returned to 
tell me, and claim his reward. Where is she? Is she dead or 
alive? She was last seen in this country just before that sudden 
snowstorm. What if she was wandering at the time in these 
woods — homeless, not knowing her way — friendless, hopeless !” 

A deep and painful sigh followed the words. 

“ That is frightful ! Only to think of it ! While I — I — have 
been yonder with a roof over my head, with wholesome food, 
with clothing and fire, and every comfort— s/ic, this poor, unfortu- 
nate girl, whom I loved so dearly once, may have been without 
shelter, with thin clothing, hungry, shivering, despairing— perhaps 
falling and dying in some hollow of this pitiless wood !” 

An acute expression of anguish came to the lips of the speaker. 
An immense pity and tenderness might have been discovered in 
his eyes. 

He went on, with his head hanging down. He had directed his 
course toward the point where he and St. Leger had entered the 

17 * 197 



198 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


Blackwater Swamp on the night of the deer-hunt. But his horse 
had obliqued to the right. As the sun was setting he found him- 
self in front of Puccoon’s hut. 

He rode up to the door, which was closed, and leaning over, 
tapped upon it with the butt of his riding-whip. 

. The door was not opened at once. Harley heard voices ; then 
an inner door — apparently that of Fanny’s little chamber — was 
shut quickly, a key was turned, securing it, and Fanny appeared 
upon the threshold of the outer door, with heightened color, 
exhibiting some trepidation. % 

But at sight of Harley, with his sweet and cordial smile, the 
child’s fears quickly disappeared. In all countries which he had 
traversed — in France, Austria, Italy, England — the face of this 
man had inspired confidence in women and children, who seemed 
to read by instinct the kind and loyal nature from which they had 
nothing to fear. 

Harley asked for Puccoon, and finding that he was abroad, rode 
on, saying that he would probably return on the same night. As 
he rode down the hill, he thought of St. Leger’s statement, that 
some one was living in Puccoon’s cabin besides himself and 
Fanny ; but attaching no importance to the fact, if it were a fact, 
he dismissed the subject from his mind. 

“ St. Leger might very well love this little maid,” he said to him- 
self, glancing over his shoulder at Fanny, upon whose tangled curls 
the last rays of sunset fell, making her resemble a picture. “ The 
nephew of an earl— the daughter of a trapper — that would be 
strange, but life is, after all, a strange affair.” 

Having uttered which maxim, Harley rode toward the Black- 
water Swamp, which he reached, and, dismounting, penetrated on 
foot, just as the sun balanced itself, like a ball of fire, on the 
summit of the woods, flushing the weird and phantom-like cy- 
presses with an angry crimson. 

He knew his way now, and went on steadily, circling the lake, 
and making for the spot'where the long-swaying tree-trunk served 
for a bridge over the stream running into the large body of water. 
This he soon reached, and crossed. He then continued to advance 
through the jungle toward the outlet to the lake in the midst of 
which was the small island— the home of the man of the swamp. 

It was the fourth time that he had visited the wild and sombre 
locality. The flrst visit has been described ; and we have seen how 
he penetrated the morass, crossed the sullen, moat-like outlet and 
reached the den of the hunter, poacher, or whatever he was. He 
had repeated this visit a few days afterwards, and had come a third 
time, but on both subsequent visits had seen nothing of the man 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


199 


whom he evidently sought. The underground home of the swamp- 
dweller was deserted. 

Would he have better fortune now? He had renewed his at- 
tempt in consequence of the information communicated to him by 
St. Leger on the preceding day. The mysterious man of the swamp 
had been seen again, after a month’s absence, in the vicinity of 
Puccoon’s cabin — Fanny had recognized him — and there was no 
reason why he should not have returned to his den in the marshes. 
Harley had resolved at least to look for him in that direction, and 
was now approaching the island, upon which the under-ground 
dwelling was situated. He was unarmed, as he had been upon all 
his latter visits. . On his first visit he had taken the precaution to 
buckle around his waist a belt containing a pistol ; but now, either 
from a conviction that it was unnecessary, or relying on his great 
physical strength, he carried no weapon more dangerous than his 
riding-whip. 

He reached the outlet, waded through as before, and went up the 
bank toward the den, the dry water-fiags and canes crackling under 
his feet as they might have done under the feet of a panther, or 
some other denizen of the marsh and the night. 

Ten steps brought him to the low door, with the narrow aperture 
half-covered with dry vines near it in the slope of the grassy 
mound. He pushed the door; it opened. The last glimmer of 
sunset streamed in. The den was deserted. The rude table and 
chair— the ruder bed— a few blackened brands in the fireplace — 
these objects, and these only, served to indicate that the place had 
ever been inhabited. 

Suddenly Harley stooped. One other object had attracted his 
attention. This was a paper which had probably been left upon 
the table. It lay upon the ground ; the wind passing through the 
narrow aperture had no doubt blown it from the table. 

Harley picked it up, and came out into the open air again. 
There was just sufficient light to read it by. These words were 
traced, in a firm, strong hand upon the paper : 

“To Justin Harley: 

“lam going away, and leave this for you; you will find it, for 
you will come. 

“ I will never sign that paper. If I promised to do so, I break my 
promise. I did not keep my appointment with you, because I will 
not touch your money : I only took the jewels because they were 
my mother’s, and are now mine. 

“ After this, you will never hear of me again. Let us part in 
peace. ' Gontran.” 


200 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Harley read this paper twice. When he had read it a second 
time, the hand holding it fell at his side, and he fixed his eyes 
upon the ground, refiecting profoundly. 

“ I am glad of one thing,” he muttered — “ there is good in that 
man after all. But why does he refuse to sign the paper?” 

He went slowly back as he came, crossed the stream, circled the 
lake, emerged from the swamp, and rode toward Puccoon’s cabin. 

He had just disappeared from the vicinity of the island, when 
the head of a man, whose face was half covered with a long beard, 
rose cautiously above a thick growth of swamp-grass and fiags, in 
which he had been cpncealed. 

“ I thought he would come,” the man said, in alow tone, “and 
it was better to wait. I am tired of this country. All is ready for 
her. To-morrow — yes, to-morrow ” 

He stopped, looked cautiously in the direction in which Harley 
had disappeared, and then, springing up on firm ground, stood fully 
revealed in the twilight. His whole appearance had changed. 
There was no longer any ferocity in his face ; a firm and stern 
look had replaced it — a look not without a tinge of sadness. His 
rude dress had been discarded. He was dressed like a man of 
good society, and the carriage of his person was not without a 
certain pride and grace. It was more than 'ever plain that this 
human being was not of boorish origin : culture — social position, 
perhaps — had preceded debasement. 

“ There is no time to lose,” he muttered ; “ this place is growing 
too hot. To-morrow — yes, to-morrow ” 

He left the sentence unfinished, and went slowly into the jungle, 
which he evidently knew perfectly. A winding path opened in it. 
He pursued this path, and in half-an-hour emerged on the banks 
of the Blackwater. 

A horse was tied in a dense thicket at the point where he came 
out. The man mounted, and going along the bank, came to a 
private and little-known ford, which he crossed, disappearing in 
the woods on the other side, just as Harley, who had emerged from 
the marsh in the opposite direction, approached Puccoon’s hut. 



CHAPTER XLIX. 

PUCCOON IS LOST. 

Pdccoon was hunting deer on that night — the night of the snow- 
storm one month before — through which Harley had ridden from 
Blandfield — through which the vagrants had groped with their 
lantern — through which the poor, thin figure of a woman of 
twenty-eight had tottered, ever fainter, into the forests of the 
Blackwater. 

Puccoon was hunting by torch-light, as usual, but had seen 
nothing. The snow had not begun to fall when he left his cabin. 
In fact nothing could have been less to be suspected. 

A mile from his cabin, however, and deep in the swamp, he had 
felt a fiake fall upon his hand. He looked up. It was snowing, 
and the appearance of the sky indicated to his practiced eye that 
the snowfall would probably be heavy. 

Having realized this fact, Puccoon debated in his mind whether 
or not he should return home. 

“ No,” he grunted, “ not empty-handed. The snow’s all the better. 
They will see the light further. The very night to hunt.” 

He went on, making a circle, and looking out. 

Not a sound — not a pair of eyes, shining in the light of his torch. 

Two hours afterward, he had no better fortune. He then fell 
into a bad humor, maligned the deer, and determined to go back 
home and take care of Fanny, who might be uneasy, he thought, at 
his absence on such a night. 

He vented his ill-humor, for want of something better, on the 
“ lightwood ” torch which he carried. 

“ You can’t find me any deer, and I don’t want you, or mean to 
be troubled with you !” said Puccoon — “ blast you !” 

This relieved him. He hurled the torch to the ground and put 
his heel on it. 

“ I know my way without you !” 

With which boast Puccoon strode along, his gun in his right 
hand, his shoulders stooping, hunter-wise, his eyes peering into 
the darkness. The snow was falling in a slow, dense mass— a 
white wall shutting out every landmark. 

When Puccoon had gone half-a-mile, tramping steadily through 
the snow, he stopped and looked around him. After which he 
began to laugh— a laugh of huge disdain and self-contempt. 

201 



202 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“ I’m lost !” he said. 

This statement evidently struck him as involving an utter 
absurdity. 

“ Lost !” he repeated, in the same tone. 

He set forward again — the snow falling more and more densely. 
The night was quite dark. He stumbled at times, and looked 
about him. He could not see fifty feet. 

The snow glared, and was some help. He had some assurance, 
at least, that he would not fall into a ravine or pit. 

“ Heavy !” he muttered. 

He looked in front and saw a sort of mound. 

“ Drifting, I should say, if there was any wind.” 

More and more disgusted, Puccoon walked on, not diverging 
from his path for the drift. He reached it — was about to plunge 
through it — when the drift resisted. Something moaned as his 
foot struck it. 

At this, sound Puccoon suddenly stopped — retreating a step. The 
snow-drift moved, and another moan, the feeblest of moans, came 
from it. 

Puccoon’s startled eyes measured the drift, taking in its shape. 
It was long, and had the appearance of a corpse in a shroud. 

“ It is — something — alive !” exclaimed the trapper. 

A moment afterwards he had stooped, groped in the long white 
shroud, and dragged up the poor woman who had sunk there an 
hour before. 

Puccoon was a rough and informal human being, as far as his 
manners went, but his face fiushed suddenly with pity. 

“ A woman !” he exclaimed, in a voice faltering, and full of won- 
der, “ a woman freezing to death !— and Pve lost my way I If I 
only had my rum-fiask !” 

By ill-fortune he had left it at home. 

“ I must go the quicker !” 

Having said this, Puccoon raised the body of the woman in his 
arms, felt that her heart was still beating, and— full of new strength 
and resolution now— carried her rapidly in the direction in which 
he supposed his cabin to be. 

He did not know the way, but for some time he had heard run- 
ning water. What water was it? There were many confiuents of 
the Black water. 

He went on, bravely plunging through the snow. The path 
seemed endless ; the half dead woman seemed about to die in his 
arms. 

“ I must find it !” exclaimed Puccoon. 

He carried her to a spot where a broad-boughed laurel protected 



THEY PLACED THE POOR CREATURE IN FRONT OF THE FIREPLACE.”— P. 203 . 







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JUSTIN HARLEY. 


203 


her from the snow, and laid her down. Then he ran in the di- 
rection of the water, reached it, recognized the banks of the Black- 
water half a mile above his hut, and, hastening back, took up his 
burden again. 

His course was now plain. He went on rapidly, struck into a 
half-covered path which he knew, saw a light glimmer in the dis- 
tiiiice, reached the hollow in which his hut stood, and running, out 
of breath, up the hill, knocked loudly at the door, which was 
opened by Fanny, pale and startled at the sight of her father, snow- 
covered, and carrying what resembled a corpse in his arms. 

A bright fire was blazing in the large fireplace, and in "front of 
this the poor creature was laid. Fanny excitedly chafed her hands, 
and brushed the snow from her clothes, and Puccoon succeeded in 
making her swallow some fiery rum. Under the influence of this 
fire without and within, she opened her eyes, and a slight color 
came to her cheeks. 

“ She’s alive ! She’s alive !” shouted Puccoon, loudly. 

The rough fellow then began to cry like a child. 




CHAPTER L. 

THE LADY OF THE SNOW. 

In three or four days — thanks to the assiduous care of Fanny, 
more especially — the poor, faint “ Lady of the Snow,” as Puccoon 
called her, with rude poetry, began to recover her strength, return- 
ing to life, as it were, from the threshold of the grave. 

They looked upon her with the deepest pity and sympathy — this 
rough trapper and simple-hearted girl. With the truest courtesy, 
they had not asked her a single question. Her coming to the rude 
cabin had seemed to be regarded by them as a matter of course. 
It is the human being in broad-cloth, with a bell to be rung at his 
door, and a servant to answer it, who looks upon the unknown as 
essentially the suspicious, and demands a letter of introduction. 
The Arab in his tent, and the hunter in his cabin say : “ Enter, 
friend, you are welcome !” 

It seemed, indeed, the very simplest thing in the world to Puc- 
coon and little Fanny that they should give shelter, food, and care 
to the poor unknown “ Lady of the Snow.” And they took such 
good care of her — Fanny surrendering her own bed to her, and 
sleeping on a pallet on the floor — that in those three or four days 
a faint tinge of color came back to her cheeks, and she could walk 
without tottering. In the eyes of the trapper and his daughter she 
was beautiful beyond expression. Her face was thin and pale, but 
kept its delicate oval ; her eyes were large and soft, the forehead 
high. In the white hands, the small feet, and the slight flgure, 
clearly defined by the black dress, could be read refinement and 
delicate nurture. 

Often Puccoon thought, “ Where did this strange ‘ Lady of the 
Snow ’ come from ? Who is she ?” But he never asked her, and 
it was the lady who one morning said, in her low, sad voice, which 
had a flute-like tone, 

“ My kind, good friend, you have not asked me a single question 
since you saved my life. I ought to tell you my sorrowful story — 
how I came to be dying in the snow. I know that ; but you must 
not think hard of me if I do not tell you anything about myself at 
present.” 

204 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


205 


Puccoon burst forth : He didn’t want to pry into a lady’s matters. 
She was welcome ! — welcome ! 

“ You feel thus and speak thus,” said the poor woman, “ because 
you are a true and brave man, and have saved my life and pity 
me ! I can never thank you enough ! and some day you shall 
know all about me. My life has been a strange one. May I stay 
here without saying more now ? I will help Fanny, and teach her 
too, for I am beginning to love her dearly. I do not wish any one 
to know that I am here. I will tell you why some day.” 

Puccoon replied that she might stay until her hair was gray ; she 
would be welcome. And replying, with a sorrowful smile, that it 
w^as growing gray already, though she was only twenty-eight, the 
poor Lady of the Snow went quietly to help Fanny in her simple 
housekeeping. \ 

Thus the relations between these humble people and the un- 
known had been established without trouble on a comprehensible 
footing. She would stay and help Fanny, and teach her, and see 
nobody. She proceeded to perform her part with sedulous good 
faith. The child had received only the common rudiments of an 
education. The Lady of the Show now began with her where she 
had left off, and taught her day by day. The instruction was en- 
tirely oral. In this rude cabin of the hills began w'hat we now style 
a course of lectures. With Fanny seated on a stool at her feet, 
clasping her little hands across the lady’s lap, and looking up into 
her face with eyes kindling and full of interest, the teacher in- 
stilled into her pupil’s mind the parts of the world’s history, a clear 
and simple outline of geography, the theory of rain, of the tides, of 
gravity, and passed to astronomy, which she illustrated by pointing 
out the constellations, particularly the pointers of the Great Dipper, 
indicating the unchangeable star of the mariner, by which he 
traversed the pathless ocean, going from clime to clime. And all 
this new world of wonder was unfolded simply, in short words, 
without the employment of a single term which Fanny did not 
understand. Day by day the instruction went on ; hour by hour 
the Lady of the Snow found her pupil’s mind opening, expanding, 
growing. Her lessons grew longer, fuller, and more detailed, and 
with all was mingled an unceasing undertone of moral and religious 
comment. Fanny was reminded incessantly that, behind all these 
wonders— the sequence of the season, the revolution of the planets, 
the harmonious movement of the countless systems of the skies — 
was the immutable and Eternal Spirit — God, the all-powerful, the 
all-merciful, the Creator and Preserver of mankind, who had sent 
his own Divine Son into the world to save all who loved and trusted 
in Him. The child had been taught to read, and never passed a 

18 


206 


JUSTIN HAELEY. 


day without reading her Bible and praying; but the religious 
lessons now instilled into her mind were so earnestly and so 
tenderly uttered that she felt her heart glow as she listened. 

This was the manner in which the unknown woman and the 
child passed their hours in the rude cabin. It was not strange that 
they grew to love each other. Fanny had found a person of her 
own sex — gentle, refined, sympathetic, — to look up to and love, 
and the lonely woman seemed to have found even more. Her 
hungry heart clung to the child. Each hour her atfections for 
Fanny seemed to grow and strengthen. At last the time came 
when she seemed unable to bear the girl out of her sight, and she 
would follow her with her sad eyes, in which a new-found joy 
began to shine, as she moved to and fro, smiling or singing with 
the light heart of girlhood. 

Once Fanny waked late at night, and opened her eyes. The 
Lady of the Snow -had risen, and was bending over her with eyes 
full of the deepest tenderness. Fanny still felt upon her forehead 
the light impression of her lips. 

“ Something woke me,” said her ‘friend, “ and you looked, as the 
moonlight fell upon your face, dear, so like — so like ” 

The pale face flushed, and some tears came to her eyes. 

“ I had a child of my own once,” she faltered. “ She is dead 
now. She was like you.” 

Fanny clasped her arms around the neck of her friend. 

“ You have another child now !” she said, smiling tenderly. 

Thereupon the poor lady sank down on her knees, caught Fanny 
to her heart, and sobbed out : 

“ She would have been — if she had lived— just your age !” 

Such had been the events — slight and humble, but important for 
Fanny’s development in mind and heart — which had followed the 
rescue of the unknown by Puccoon. 

Under the teaching of the Lady of the Snow, Fanny had in one 
month grown to be almost a woman ; and it was during these lessons 
that, more than once, St. Leger had made his appearance, abruptly 
interrupting them, and forcing the unknown to retire quickly into 
Fanny’s little room. Upon such occasions the lady exhibited great 
confusion, and from the manner in which she looked at the girl, 
seemed to be afraid that this singular avoidance of the visitor 
would excite disagreeable suspicions. But Fanny was too simple 
and loyal to feel any doubt, or care to pry into her friend’s secret. 
She accepted with child-like trust the statement that the lady 
wished to see no one, and remain at the cabin in entire privacy ; 
and having the conviction that there must be some good reason for 
her wish, would never even look her curiosity. 









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CHAPTER LI. 

HIDING. 

A MONTH had passed thus in this s'^t^eet interchange of affectionate 
cares between the pale, sad Lady of the Snow and Fanny, whose 
whole life seemed to be bursting into bloom under this new influ- 
ence, vivifying as the sunshine ; and on the evening when Harley 
approached the cabin, they were enjoying the last hours of the In- 
dian summer in a little enclosure behind the hut, where Fanny had 
made her modest flower-garden. 

The flowers were not fine ones, with long, scientific names. An 
ornamental gourd, with yellow globes, striped with green, twined 
itself around some touch-me-nots, whose white blooms were re- 
lieved against the red trumpets of the cypress-vine, and a clustering 
profusion of purple morning glories rioted — twisting themselves 
in like manner, around the stalk of a single, towering prince’s- 
feather, which bowed its crimson masses with proud courtesy 
toward its little mistress. 

The Lady of the Snow had just shaken some of the minute ebon 
seed of the tall plant into her hand, and was pointing out the won- 
der of the growth of the stalwart stalk and the gorgeous blooms 
from so small a germ, when the footsteps of a horse were heard, and 
the lady turned her head quickly. 

Through an opening in the tree she saw and recognized Harley, 
who had evidently not seen them yet. 

“ Justin Harley !” murmured the Lady of the Snow, in a low, star- 
tled tone ; “ he is coming ! He will see me ! He must not !— Oh ! 
he must not !” 

She took Fanny’s arm, and hastened with her toward the house, 
evidently unaware that the girl had heard the words which she 
had uttered. 

“ Then you know Mr. Harley ?” Fanny said, speaking from the 
impulse of the moment. 

“Yes! yes!” 

“ Is he your friend? I hope so. He is ours.” 

“ He is — he is my but come, come, my child. Do not ask me 

anything. Oh no ! he must not see me !” 

She hurried in through the little door in rear of the house, ex- 
claiming, “ Do not speak of my being here !” and hastening into the 

207 



208 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


small chamber, closed the door just as Harley rode up to the hut. 
He had heard the sound of the voices, but had seen no one ; Fanny 
had opened at his knock, and the brief colloquy had taken place, 
followed by Harley’s departure. 

Fanny then tapped at the door of the inner room, and said, in a 
low tone, 

“ He is gone !” 

And thereupon the door of the room was opened. The lady, 
looking exceedingly pale, and catching her breath nervously, made 
her appearance, and listening to the receding hoof-strokes, sank 
into a chair. 

“ This-^agitation — must appear very strange to you, my child,” 
she murmured, “ but — but — I have been very unhappy in my life, 
and — and — Mr. Harley ” 

Her head sank, and some tears rolled down her cheeks. Fanny’s 
flowed in response, and she went and put her arms around her 
friend’s neck. ^ 

“ Don’t cry !” she said ; “ you make me cry, too. I do not want 
to know your secret — if you have one. You love me, and I love 
you very dearly, and that is enough !” 

The thin arm of the poor lady clasped the child, and she mur- 
mured in a tone so low that it was almost inaudible : 

“ I have something to live for still !” 

Thereupon a few more tears came, and calmness succeeded. 
Fanny and the lady talked, and they were talking still when the 
sound of hoof-strokes was heard again. 

“ He is coming back !” exclaimed the lady, rising quickly. 

“ He said he would come — to see father.” 

“ But your father is away !” 

“ Yes. I will tell him.” 

“ He must not see me ! Oh ! I cannot say that too often !— ■ 
he must not !” 

“ He shall not !” 

The lady hurried into the little room again, followed by Fanny, 
■who had closed the front door of the cabin. 

“ I will stay here with you !” said Fanny ; you are trembling 
so!” 

“ Yes ! yes ! Stay with me. I feel faint.” 

She ran and locked the inner door as she spoke. 

“He will not find your father, and will think you are away or 
asleep. It is a deception, but an innocent one 1 Oh ! stay with 
me 1” 

The hoof-strokes were at the door, and a man was heard dis- 
mounting. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


209 


“ He is coming !” exclaimed the lady. “ Oh ! pretend you are 
asleep ! Do not answer him ! I must have you with me !” 

“ I will stay with you — do not be afraid !” exclaimed the warm- 
hearted child. 

At the same instant a voice was heard, coming, apparently, from 
the woods in front of the hut. 

“ Jest in time, squire ! . I’m glad I got back in time to see you. 
I want to have some talk with you, squire !” 



18 * 



CHAPTER LII. 

HAELEY AND PUCCOON IN THE HUT. 

It was the voice of Puccoon, but something had changed it 
greatly. It was no longer the old, rough, sonorous ring— that of a 
man in high physical health. It was low, husky, and a cough 
interrupted it. 

Puccoon had come from the opposite direction, followed by his 
faithful dog, gun on shoulder, knife in belt, but without game. He 
reached the cabin just as Harley dismounted and tied his horse to 
a limb of one of the <!rees. 

“ Glad to see you, squire ! Glad to see you,” said Puccoon, wheez- 
ing. “ Come in !” 

“ You seem to have a cold, Puccoon,” said Harley, grasping his 
hand — “ too much night-hunting !” 

“Worse’n a cold I’m afeard, squire — somethin’ in the chist. 
It’s been on me for more’n ten days now, and I’m gittin’ a little 
oneasy.” 

In fact Puccoon looked downhearted. He went in, followed by 
Harley, and held his hands over the fire, in front of which Fanny 
had placed his supper. 

“ Can’t eat much now, squire ; help yourself. Not hungry ? Nor 
I. Where is my little girl, I wonder? Dropped asleep, I reckon, 
in there, waitin’ for me. Well, I won’t disturb her, all the more as 
I want to talk a little with you, squire.” 

“ Talk with me, Puccoon ?” 

“ About /ler.” 

Puccoon pointed with his rugged finger over his shoulder toward 
the small room. He had taken his seat upon a stool, politely 
yielding the only chair to Harley. 

For some moments Puccoon remained silent, except that from 
time to time he burst into a husky cough, and put his hand on his 
breast. 

“ I’m rather skeery, I know, squire,” he said, at length, “ but I 
think I’m goin’ to be sick, and men like me find being sick a bad 
business ; they mostly die.” 

“ All fancy, Puccoon,” said Harley. “ You have a bad cough, 
that is all.” 

210 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


211 


“ Maybe, squire, — can’t tell — but something may happen to me.” 

“ Something may happen, as you say, to all of us, friend.” 

“And maybe to me, squire. I don’t say it will, but I say it may, 
squire !” 

“Well.” 

“ And then — 

Puccoon stopped and looked dispirited. 

“ You see I’m thinking of my little Fanny.” 

“ You mean that if you were to die she would be without a pro- 
tector ? 

“ Jest so, squire.” 

“ That shows your good heart, friend, and I honor you for your 
forethought. Yes, something may happen to you — if not now, at 
some future time — and then little Fanny will need a home, and she 
must be provided with one.” 

Harley reflected for some moments, and then said : 

“ Listen, my dear Puccoon. You are an old and true comrade ; 
there is nothing that I would not do for your daughter, whom I am 
attached to for her own sake. I am going to Europe, but it is pro- 
bable that Sainty will marry soon. Well, let Fanny come and live 
at Huntsdon, and make it her home.” 

Puccoon turned away his head. His eyes filled with tears of 
gratitude. 

“ You were always a good friend, squire !” 

“ And you a good comrade I” 

He stretched out his hand and grasped Puccoon’s. 

“ Your little daughter shall never want a home, as long as I or 
Sainty have one.” 

Puccoon coughed ; it was half from emotion. 

“ That brings up something I ought to tell you, squire.” 

“ Something you ought to tell me ?” 

“ I’m a-deceivin’ you.” 

“ Deceiving me, Puccoon I” 

“ Fanny ” 

“ Puccoon stopped. 

“ Fanny ain’t ” 

Puccoon stopped again. 

“ Fanny ain’t my daughter, squire. There, it’s out 1” 

Having said this, Puccoon began to tremble. 

Harley received the announcement with great astonishment, and 
said : 

“ Not your daughter !” 

“ No, squire ! It breaks my heart to say it, but trouble’s cornin’ 
on me, I think, and if I die, I don’t mean to die a-deceivin’ any- 


212 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


body, much less you, that are a true friend, and offer to look after 
my child — for she is my child I Oh, yes ! she is my child, for 
all !” 

Puccoon began to sob, and regained his equanimity with difli- 
culty. He then proceeded to tell Harley what follows : 

Six or seven years before, he had gone out hunting, and remained 
absent all day. He hunted day and night then. His wife had just 
died, and he had no rest if he was not tramping — tramping and 
wearing himself out, and coming home too tired and broken down 
to think about his poor old woman, who had gone and left him 
after they had lived together so long. Well, on this day he had 
hunted hour after hour till evening, and, seeing that night was 
coming, had gone back slowly to his desolate cabin, where he now 
spent his dreariest moments, because there was not a sound to be 
heard there, and no voice to welcome him— nothing but the whis- 
pering of the tall cypress trees, and the moan of the wind in the 
laurels, and they 'v>'Ve not cheerful. He had half a mind to lie 
down in the woods and sleep till daybreak, and not go to the cabin 
at all ; but he was hungry with his long tramp, and thinking he 
would broil some meat, and eat it, and stretch himself like a dog 
on the floor, and forget that there was no one but himself there in 
sleep, he went on toward the hut. When he was within a few feet, 
he heard something like a child’s cry. Then he stopped, wondering. 
He went on a few more steps. The cry came again, and he fell 
a-trembling. A third cry made him run in, and there was a little 
girl, seemingly three or four years old, who had been lying wrapped 
in a cloth cloak, in front of the fire, and had waked, crying, “ Papa ! 
papa ! Where is papa?” 

Harley listened with deep attention and unconcealed astonish- 
ment. 

“ And that was Fanny !” said Puccoon, in a low tone. 

“ Fanny ! Is it possible ?” 

“ As I’m a Christian man, squire, it was Fanny !” 

“ And who left the child in your cabin ?” 

“ I don’t know, no more squire ’n the babe unborn !” 

Harley knit his brows in deep thought. 

“ A strange story I” he said. “ And no one ever came to claim 
her?” 

“ Nobody.” 

“She could tell you nothing?” 

“ She could only babble something with her dear little mouth, 
squire ! But I couldn’t make anything of it. All I could make out 
was something about her ‘ papa ’ and ‘ a horse,’ and then she was 
skeered at the blood of. a deer I had killed, on my coat-sleeve — 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


213 


blood has skeered her ever sence — and hid her head in the cloak, 
and burst out crying.” 

“ And— you say you could never find any traces of her father ? 
He never claimed her?” 

“ Never, squire — but •” 

Puccoon lowered his voice. 

“ I can tell you her name. It was on her clothes.” 

“ Her name !” 

“ Her name is Fanny Gontran,” whispered Puccoon. 

Harley startled so perceptibly when Puccoon uttered these 
words, that even the trapper, absorbed as he was in his singular 
narrative, observed it. 

“Do you know — did you ever hear of any one by that name, 
squire ?” 

Harley had opened his eyes wide, fixed them on the trapper, and 
seemed to be struggling with some idea which filled him with 
wonder. 

“ Fanny— Gontran I” he said. 

“ Yes, squire.” 

“ Gontran !” 

“ Squire I you know this Gontran ! You can tell me if ” 

Harley felt that the eyes of the trapper were seeking to drag the 
truth from him — they were riveted upon his face — and he resumed 
his self-possession by an effort. 

“ Gontran ?” Yes, I knew a person of that name once — a very 
long time ago.” 

“ But ” 

“ I do not know where he is now. There may be many persons 
of that name, Puccoon. Bnt you have not told me one thing. Why 
have you concealed the fact that the child was not your own ?” 

“I couldn’t! Oh! I couldn’t tell it!” exclaimed Puccoon. 
“ She got to love me soon — and I loved her — and I thought maybe 
somebody would come and take her ! And Lfelt ’s if I couldn’t 
live without her, squire !” 

“Yes, I understand!” 

“ She was all I had ! I tended her, and keered for her, and I 
saw her grow up and look so sweet and beautiful — and to think 
that some day some man might come and say, ‘ The child ain’t 
yourn!^ So I kept quiet, squire. I never even told Fanny she 
wasn’t my daughter. I wouldn’t ’a’ told even you, if I hadn’t had 
this here cough— which is shakin’ me, and well on to killin’ me — 
and then what ’d become of her, without you knowed and was her 
friend?” 

“Yes! yes!” 


214 JUSTIN HARLEY. 

•Jt 

“ And if I died, I didn’t want to die deceivin’ you ! So I told 
you, squire !” 

A slight sound in the small apartment caught the quick ear of 
the trapper. 

“ Take keer, squire !” he said, in a low tone, “ they’re stirrin’— 
that is Fanny! I’ll see you again, squire. And — if I die — it is 
understood ” 

Harley took Puccoon’s hand, rising as he did so. 

“ You know me,” he said. “ She shall never want a home. Oh ! 
no, as God sees me, she shall be cared for, watched over, provided 
for, as I would provide for — my own daughter I” 

He grasped Puccoon’s hand so powerfully that the strong trapper 
winced. He then went out of the cabin, mounted his horse, and 
rode away, muttering, 

“ Good heavens I That child — Fanny — is — Fanny Gontran /” 

The slight stir in the small apartment behind the cabin had been 
caused by a suddenisnovement of the Lady of the Snow. Leaning 
against the door, she had heard all that Puccoon had said to Harley. 


/ 




CHAPTER LIII, 

THE SECOND ATTACK. 

Dr. Wills had just turned over in bed, about daylight, on the 
morning following these scenes, to take another nap, when a violent 
knocking at the front door of his house aroused him, and hastening 
to the window, he put out his head, demanding the cause of the 
assault upon his door. 

The reply was given by a servant from Oakhill. Colonel Hart- 
right had a new attack like the last, and might be dead before the 
doctor could reach him. 

Dr. Wills hastened to dress, and taking the servant’s horse to 
save time, galloped to Oakhill. 

The attack had been extremely sudden, following a hearty supper, 
and was worse than the first. Nothing saved the patient but in- 
stant and profuse bleeding. Even then, he did not open his eyes 
for more than an hour. When he did so, he gazed blankly around 
him, and did not recognize Dr. Wills or anybody. 

All that day he lay in a stupor. Toward evening, he moaned and 
said, faintly, 

“ Doctor — send for — Sainty Harley.” 

“ He and his brother are both down stairs, sir.” 

“ No — not — Justin ! Tell — Sainty.” 

The boy came up, his eyes wet with tears, and could only say, as 
he approached the bed, 

“ Oh ! uncle ! uncle !” 

The feeble hand of the rich man rose and took that of the boy. 

“You are you are ” 

The fiushed face of Sainty Harley, as he listened to these broken 
and faltering words, showed his deep emotion. 

Suddenly the poor old man burst out crying, and gripped the 
boy’s hand hard. 

“ Come close ! Come close !” he said, in a trembling voice. 

The boy bent over him. 

“ The very face ! — the very face !” 

He burst out crying again. 


215 



/ 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


216 


“The very image of my dear brother George !” 

After this the sick man closed his eyes, add began to sob, exclaim- 
ing from time to time, 

“ Huntsdon ! To be sold ! Hicks ! My brother ! My brother 

Dr. Wills was about to urge the young man to retire, when 
Colonel Hartright opened his eyes, and said : 

“ Send for Justin !” 

Dr. Wills hesitated. 

“ Your condition is such I fear, my dear sir ” 

“ Send for Justin !” 

There was no opposing that determined will. The old nabob 
was master on his sick bed as everywhere. 

Ten minutes afterwards Justin Harley came in, and, going to the 
bedside, stood there perfectly silent and motionless. An immense 
pity and sweetness, as of a woman, shone in his eyes. 

“Uncle ” 

The voice aroused the sick man. 

“ Thank God ! you sent for me, uncle, and give me this opportu- 
nity to tell you how much I love you ! I have been cold — hard, 
perhaps ; it was in my voice only. I should have remembered ” 

The strong Justin Harley quite broke down. The old man looked 
up at him, dreamily. 

“ You are — like your mother !” 

Harley’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ You were always a good boy, Justin. Be prudent. Do not 

Huntsdon — Hicks !” 

He stopped, his breast heaving. ^ 

“ Huntsdon must not go to Hicks !” 

Harley had already understood from his uncle’s broken words 
that he had been informed of the danger to which the old Harley 
estate was exposed. 

“ Do not fear, sir,” he said. “ Mr. Hicks will not be master at 
Huntsdon. The debt will be paid — by Sainty.” 

“ By— Sainty?” 

“ I shall give him the property. In forty-eight hours the deed 
will be executed.” 

“ Give him — the property ?” 

“ Harley replied with deep sadness, for the face of the sick man 
filled him with sorrowful affection. 

“ I mean Sainty to have the estate, uncle. I am going away. I 
am unfortunate, and bring ill-fortune.” 

The feeble hand on the coverlid stirred a little. 

“ Justin !” 

“Uncle.” 


JUSTIN JIARLEY. 


217 


His lips moved, but no sound issued from them. 

Dr. Wills touched Harley’s shoulder. 

“ This interview is injurious to Colonel Hartright, my dear sir,” 
he whispered. 

“ Yes, I will not prolong it.’ 

He turned to take a last look at the poor old man, who was lying 
with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. Tears came to his eyes as 
he looked. He bent down, raised the feeble hand, and touched it 
with his lips. At that touch the sick man’s drooping eyelids were 
raised ; he looked at Harley with flushed cheeks, and burst out 
sobbing. 

“You are — you are — like — your mother! And Sainty, he is 
like — George !” 

The eyes closed, and Harley, warned by a look from Dr. Wills, 
went slowly from the room, taking his brother with him. 



■i 


• 0 



19 




CHAPTER LIV. 

THE RESULT OF RIDING AN UNBROKEN COLT. 

It was a little past noon, on the day of the scene just described. 

Church at “ Old St. John’s,” within a mile of Blandfield, was 
over, and the congregation, warned by the gloomy and lowering 
sky, hastened to enter their vehicles, and return home before the 
snow-storm which was plainly impending. 

The Indian summer was dead. The dreamy sunshine which had 
fallen on the world, like a last farewell of the golden summer, or 
the pensive autumn, had faded now, withdrawing itself, and any 
one could understand that winter, stern and harsh and gloomy, 
was about to assert his rights, and cover the earth with his mantle 
of snow. It was felt in the air. There was no wind ; it was not 
very cold ; a sort of hush was in the atmosphere ; the sun was 
scarcely visible — a hazy globe of wan light, fading into mist. 

St Leger had left Harley and Sainty to ride to Oakhill, and had 
gone on horseback to attend church. It was his English habit, and 
he rarely omitted going when it was in his power. Dismounting 
and carefully affixing the bridle of his horse to a swinging-limb — 
for he was riding a very fine young colt of Harley’s but half-broken 
to the saddle— he entered the old edifice, took his seat in one of the 
high-backed pews, composed himself into an attitude of grave at- 
tention, and listened with decorous bearing to the somewhat com- 
monplace sermon of the aged parson in his high, tub-shaped pulpit, 
with the sounding-board above it, resembling a gigantic extin- 
guisher. 

St. Leger had seen from the numerous coaches standing around 
the church, in charge of their coachman, that a considerable num- 
ber of the old planters of the region, with their families, were pres- 
ent, and among the rest he had recognized the coach from Bland- 
field, whose guardian had respectfully touched his hat and offered 
to see that his spirited colt did not break away. Seated now in his 
pew, St. Leger looked around ; saw Evelyn and the whole family 
from Blandfield— with the exception of "the aged Mrs. Bland, who 
had a dread of horses and would never trust herself behind them — 
and wondering a little at the pallor of Evelyn’s cheeks, proceeded 
218 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


219 


to look at other young ladies out of the corners of his eyes, while 
apparently wrapped in the discourse of the old parson. 

All at once he lost sight of the old parson, and turned his head 
quickly. In one of the spacious pews, and leaning against a pillar, 
he saw Funny, and beside her Puccoon, who had donned his least- 
ragged coat in honor of the occasion. Fanny had asked him to 
accompany her, on the long walk from the cabin to “Old St. 
John s,” and they had set out early, leaving the hut in charge of 
the Lady of the Snow,who had said that she was not strong enough 
to walk so far. 

St. Leger gazed at Fanny with suspicious intentness — his heart 
was beating in the strangest way ! The fair hair, falling in profuse 
curls upon the round neck just a little drooping forward, was 
crowned by a modest chip-hat, secured beneath the chin by a blue 
ribbon. The young cheeks were touched by the most delicate rose- 
tint ; and Fanny’s blue eyes, full of sweetness and innocence, were 
fixed upon the preacher. 

During all the service and the sermon, St. Leger looked at her ; 
and any one who had seen his tell-tale glances would have under- 
stood that this mere child, in her rustic dress, made the world 
brighter and life more sweet to the youth who had mingled with 
'countesses, flirted the fans of court beauties, and laughed at his 
friends when they came to tell him of their “ affairs of the heart.” 
It was a marvel— a mystery ; but so it was. St. Leger’s heart sank 
when he thought “ I shall go away soon and never see her again — 
she is no fit mate for me— we part soon and forever !” And, feeling 
that this woe impended— that he would in a few days return to 
Europe- he gazed at her with all his soul in his eyes, blushed like 
a boy, and heard nothing more until there was suddenly a loud 
rustling of dresses as the congregation rose, and the benediction 
was pronounced by the parson. 

The ch n rch emptied itself of its brilliant throng. St. Leger came 
out, glancing furtively over his shoulder toward Fanny. He shrunk 
from accosting her. His guilty conscience forbade him. He bowed 
to the young ladies of his acquaintance, saluted the gentlemen 
whom he knew in a friendly way, and went and mounted his colt, 
who had trampled a wide circle in the grass, while impatiently 
waiting for his rider. 

As soon as St. Leger mounted, the colt began to spring sidewise, 
to rear, and to bite at the air. The young man was an excellent 
horseman. His spur dug its way into the colt’s side, and the animal 
shivered, half with fear, half with rage. He then leaped sidewise 
to a distance of about ten feet; then he darted out of the enclosure 
around the church, and 


220 


JUSTIN ^ HARLEY. 


St. Leger heard a faint cry, and saw a girl fall, struck violently 
by the chest of the animal and hurled to the ground. He looked— 
the girl was Fanny. She was lying insensible, with Puccoon 
rushing toward her, and the Blandfield coachman violently holding 
in his four horses to prevent them from running over her. 

The young man never knew how he stopped his colt, was on the 
ground, and had Fanny in his arms. The real fact was that he had 
nearly broken the jaw of the animal, who, arrested by that savage 
assault on his mouth, had stopped short, cowed, and trembling from 
head to foot. 

“ Fanny 

The words had escaped from St. Leger’s lips in a sort of groan. 

He held her clasped to his breast, kneeling on one knee, and 
supporting her upon the other. She opened her eyes, and looked 
at him, while the crowd hurried, as crowds will, to shut off the 
fresh air. 

“ I am — not much hurt !” 

The faltering voice went to his heart. He looked at her pale 
face with agony. 

“And I 1 !” 

Puccoon put his arm around the child, and looked at her with 
the eyes of a father, his frame trembling. Suddenly he groaned. 
Her sleeve was bloody, and her hand hung down. 

“Her arm is broken !” groaned Puccoon. 

A voice at his shoulder — the voice of a young lady — said : 

“ You must put her in the carriage ! We must take her home !” 

It was Evelyn, who had impulsively sprung out and hastened to 
the spot. She was looking at Fanny with deep pity and sweetness. 

“ We will take care of her ! She cannot move !” 

St. Leger did not waste time. He raised the girl in his arms, 
carried her to the coach, and placed her in it. Puccoon had fol- 
lowed in sort of maze, and the first thing he heard was — 

“ Get in my friend ! There is room for all of us. Your little girl 
must go to my house, which is not far. She is suffering.” 

It was the voice of Judge Bland. Puccoon got in and held 
Fanny, and the Judge and Evelyn having followed, the coach rolled 
on slowly to Blandfield, followed by St. Leger, whose horse had 
been caught by a servant when he leaped to the ground. 

Two hours afterwards Fanny’s broken arm was set, and she was 
in bed, with Evelyn and Miss Clementina fanning her. 

At the moment when the chariot had reached the Blandfield gate, 
the snow had begun to fall, slowly, steadily, with the air of a snow 
which had made up its mind to take its time, and in an hour after- 
wards the whole world was one great mass of white. 



CHAPTER LV. 

A CONFESSION. 

/ 

St. Leger remained at Blandfield until the sun was nearly 
down, and then, having had his fears about Fanny somewhat 
relieved, rode back slowly through the falling snow toward Hunts- 
don. 

His head had sunk upon his breast ; his hand scarcely retained 
in its grasp the rein of his horse ; he was evidently absorbed in 
thought. This reverie lasted all the way to Huntsdon, and he 
only became aware that he had reached his journey’s end when 
his horse stopped, and, looking up, the young man saw in front of 
him the tall gate. 

At the same moment he Heard hoof-strokes, and looked round. 
Harley and his brother were returning from Oakhill ; and, joining 
him, rode with him up the hill. Flarley, speaking in a very grave, 
sad voice, informed him of the condition of the old man, and they 
went in. 

St. Leger had scarcely spoken. They sat down— Sainty having 
gone out — and the young Englishman, leaning his elbow on a 
table and his forehead on his hand, looked for some moments at 
the floor. Then he turned to Harley. 

“ My dear friend,” he said, “ I am revolving in my mind a step 
which will affect my whole future life, and wish your advice.” 

“ My advice ? I will give it cheerfully if you desire it, St. Leger ; 
but you have seen enough of the world, friend, to know that 
human beings rarely take advice— that is to say, follow it.” 

“ Well, perhaps I shall prove no exception. To speak plainly, I 
have nearly or quite made up my mind ” 

“ To what, friend ?” 

St. Leger remained silent again ; he was blushing now. 

“To — to — well, why should I be ashamed to speak? I have 
resolved, Harley, to— to— come back to Huntsdon some years 
hence !” 

Having made which extremely explicit statement, St. Leger 
blushed more than ever, and was silent. 

“To Huntsdon?” said Harley; “and can that be the subject 
upon which you wish to ask my advice ?” 

19 * 


221 



222 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


He smiled, sadly. 

“ Come back by all means !”. 

“ I have not finished.” 

“ Ah ? Speak then, friend.” 

“ I think of coming back to Huntsdon— that is to Virginia— to— 
to— you are sure to be astonished now, Harley.” 

“ Few things astonish me in this world, St. Leger.” 

“ Well, my object in returning will be to— to ask Fanny to marry 
me !” 

And having relieved himself of his secret, St. Leger blushed 
more violently than before, and looked in the direction opposite to 
Harley, who remained quite overcome with astonishment. 

“ Fanny !” he said, at length — “ That child !” 

“ Yes, Harley ! Why not ?” 

St. Leger’s face glowed. 

“ Why not ? She will be a woman then ! And what other 
obstacle is there? Her lowly origin? I thought that a serious 
matter once, even an unconquerable objection — but — but — ” 

Harley said, gravely : 

“ But you do not think it such now, you would say.” 

“ I think it none whatever, my dear Harley. Let me be plain- 
spoken, and open my whole heart to you. We are old comrades. 
We are more to each other now than any other friends can be. 
We have hunted, travelled, slept together in bivouac, shared each 
other’s dark and bright days, and should trust each other. Yes, 
Harley— after seeing all the beauties of Europe, I have come here 
to the wilds of Virginia to lose my heart with a child— a little 
rustic creature— whose loveliness and purity have won my affection 
—more than my affection. I love this child, Harley, and love her 
so that I feel my future happiness depends upon whether she does 
or does not become my wife !” 

Harley listened to this avowal with unconcealed surprise, and 
St. Leger, taking advantage of his friend’s silence, proceeded with 
all the ardor of a lover to speak of his acquaintance with Fanny, 
and the gradual growth of his love for the child. Little by little, 
this sentiment, he said, had taken possession of him ; he had felt 
it growing upon him, had struggled against it, feeling that such an 
union was repugnant to every dictate of worldly wisdom — that he, 
with his birth and position in the world, had the right to look to a 
far more advantageous connection, and might repent during all 
the remainder of his life the commission of an act so imprudent. 
But the struggle had been short. One hour with Fanny was 
sufficient to make him discard all such considerations. It was not 
so much her beauty — although she was surely of rare personal 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


223 


loveliness— which had enthralled him. She was a paragon of 
innocence and loveliness of disposition— gentle, pure, refined a 
lady in every fibre of her being, in spite of her humble origin. 
And if such were the fact, why should he hesitate ? He was the 
son of a gentleman, and the nephew of an earl, and Fanny was 
only the daughter of a poor huntsman— a girl of the people, as the 
French phrase was. But what of that? Her father was brave 
and honest. She was all that any one could desire in his wife. 
Ermingarde had wedded a squire of low degree, and King Cop- 
hetua a beggar maid— to say nothing of the marriages of "dukes 
and marquises every day with actresses and ballet-girls— and was 
not Fanny better than a girl of the ballet ? 

Having burst forth with which oration, St. Leger, blushing still, 
was silent. Harley did not for some moments make any reply! 
He then said, gravely and thoughtfully, 

“ Friend, you ask my advice,— or you go through the form of 
doing so, after making up your mind— in an affinr which, as you 
justly say, concerns the happiness of your whole future life. 
What am I to say ? To urge the considerations which you declare 
you have already revolved, and listen to the arguments with 
which you are ready to refute me? It would be but time lost!” 

“ And yet — I desire it.” 

“ I will reply in a few words, then, dear St. Leger, and with 
perfect plainness. Rank and position are nothing — or everything 
— as one views them. But, under any conditions, marriage is a 
serious affair — it means the union of two lives, for better or worse, 
until death parts them — and there should be like tastes, feelings, 
habits of living, even. Will vou find these in Fanny?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Are you certain? She is purity itself; but will Henry St. 
Leger never be ashamed of his wife?” 

“ I should never be ashamed of Fanny !” 

Harley saw from the tone in which these words were uttered 
that all further discussion was useless. 

“Well, I see that you have made up your mind, St. Leger,” he 
said. “ I have not inquired whether Fanny returns your affec- 
tion.” 

The young man colored a little. 

“ I have not asked her — but ” 

He did not ffnish the sentence, and Harley saved him the 
trouble of doing so. 

“ Well, tell me now of your plans, as I see plainly that you have 
arranged everything. A strange affair ! and I never thought seri- 
ously of it.” 


224 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


) 


“I scarce thought of it myself, or determined upon anything 
until to-day. Something happened to-day, Harley, which showed 
me the strength of my feeling for Fanny.” 

And he told his friend of the accident at the church, adding, 
that when he saw the child lying insensible, with her sleeve all 
bloody, he discovered for the first time how deep his affection for 
her was. 

Harley gravely inclined his head. 

“ I understand everything now,” he said,— “ poor child ! I am 
truly glad she was not more injured. Yes, yes, this opened your 
eyes — brought you to your resolution. You have devised your 
plan. Speak clearly. What is it ?” 

“To place Fanny in some educated family, or at some good 
school, where she will become a cultivated woman in a few years ; 
to conceal my part in this ; to return after a while, and ask her to 
become my wife !” 

The young fellow’s face glowed. Harley looked at him, kindly. 

“ Well, your life after that, my dear St. Leger? What will it 
be?” 

“ I shall purchase an estate— it must be a very modest one— near 
Huntsdon, if I can, and live and die as' an honest planter ” 

“ With Fanny !” 

Harley uttered the words with a sad smile ; he had not the 
heart longer to oppose his friend’s, happiness. 

“ Well, St. Leger,” he said, “ all this is in the future. Time is a 
hard antagonist, and works unforeseen changes ! but this is a cold 
philosophy, after all, friend. Pardon me ! — I am an old gentleman, 
and a little disenchanted. I do not lose you yet, at least. We 
return to Europe together. Afterwards — afterwards — well, after- 
wards is a long time yet !” 

The friends separated, St. Leger going to change his dress, 
Harley remaining behind, lost in reflection. 

“A singular denouement he murmured. “ How life changes and 
shifts like the foam on the wave ! I did not tell him — there is 
time enough — that Fanny is not the daughter of Puccoon !” 

He fell into a profound reverie. 

“ Fanny — Gontran /” he muttered. “ Who would have dreamed 
of that?” 







-ft 

CHAPTER LVI. 

THROUGH THE SNOW. 

It was nearly sunset, and the snow was falling steadily when 
Puccoon re-entered his cabin. The Lady of the Snow met him at 
the door, and with alarm in her fac^ asked where Fanny was. 

Puccoon described the accident in a few words, and how the girl 
had been taken to Blandfield — his companion listening with pale 
cheeks, eyes full of anxiety, and broken exclamations. Her agita- 
tion was such that she could not remain a moment still. She rose 
and went to and fro — looking out of the window with an expres- 
sion of longing and impatience. Never were excitement and 
uneasiness more eloquently indicated by a human being. 

She asked Puccoon a thousand questions. Fanny’s arm was 
broken? Was it badly broken? Had she fainted? Had she 
suffered from the movement of the coach? *Had a doctor come 
promptly? Had the poor, poor child cried when they set her 
arm ? The pale face flushed at the picture thus drawn in imagin- 
ation, and the lady sobbed, wiping her eyes and trembling. 

Puccoon had taken his seat in front of the fire, and leaning his 
elbows on his knees, held his head in his two hands. From time 
to time he coughed painfully. He was evidently in low spirits, 
and having unburdened himself about Fanny, fell into a dull, 
apathetic reverie. The lady of the Snow still went and came — 
glanced through the window — and seemed unable to rest. 

All at once she stopped, looking at Puccoon. He plainly did not 
observe her movements, and had probably forgotten her presence. • 

f^e looked, then, through the window. The snow continued to 
fall. 

“ I must go to her !” she murmured. “ But he is ill, and ought 
not to expose himself. He will not let me go alone — I must steal 
away. I shall know the road — I can follow his steps.” 

She took her old black hood and cloak, wrapped them around 
her, silently opened the door, and passing through it, closed it 
behind her. Through the small windows she could see Puccoon 

225 



226 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


still seated before the fire, with his elbows on his knees and his 
hands supporting his forehead— dozing, it seemed. 

“ He will not miss me at once,” she murmured ; “ he will think 
that I have gone to rest. To-morrow he will come to see Fanny.” 

She hurried along the hollow, following Puccoon’s footsteps, 
which were still plainly visible, although the falling snow was 
doing its best to obliterate them. They led up the hollow, around 
a hill covered with pines, across a small stream, and into a county 
road, skirted with ditches and mounds crowned with cedars. Along 
this road she eagerly hastened, following the nearly obliterated 
steps. 

She did not pay any attention to the snow, which a light wind 
now began to blow in her face. A dim recollection of another 
snow-storm came to her — that storm in which she had tottered on 
faintly, and ever grown feebler and feebler, and fallen at last, with 
the steady, silent, pitiless snow-fall weaving her shroud. 

She would not fall now ! She had been hopeless then — now a 
new infiuence had dawned upon her life — new strength had entered 
her frame — love for Fanny bore her up, and drove her onward, 
unfaltering, stopping for nothing. She thought only that the child 
was lying weak and pale at Blandfield, and she would reach her — 
she would not die upon the way !— she would hold her in her arms 
again, and kiss her, and fondle her, and say, “ I am by you Fanny ! 
I will not leave you !” 

The thought “ I will see her soon !” made the wan cheek glow, 
and the Lady of the Snow hastened on through the night. She 
never knew how she found her way, all those long and weary miles, 
for the footprints of Puccoon were soon covered by the wind blow- 
ing the snow into them. She pressed on, keeping the main road- 
following her instinct. 

Fields, roads, hollows, hills were passed. With head bent down, 
and wrapped in her cloak, the night-traveller hurried on — a solitary 
black figure moving on the bleak white highway. 

It must have been the instinct of the heart which made her look 
up at last. She saw across the fields, on her left, a glimmering 
light. A road skirted with a low fence led toward the light. She 
turned into this road, went through a tall gate, and hastened ub%n 
avenue, at the end of which, on a gentle acclivity, stood a friendly- 
looking old mansion in the midst of oaks, and ghostly poplars, 
rising lik^ spectres in the storm. 

She hurried on, reached the house, went rapidly up the steps, 
and— panting, tottering, worn-out, now— knocked at the door. 

Light steps came quickly, and Evelyn opened the door. A figure 
was leaning against it, trembling and faint. 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


227 


Either from weakness or because she was supporting herself 
against the door, the Lady of the Snow fell forward, almost into 
the young girl’s arms. 

As she did so she exclaimed, with tears and sobs, 

“ Oh ! my child ! — my child !” »■ 




CHAPTER LVII. 

TWO FATHERS. 

PuccooN sat crouching still in front of his fire. His elbows rested 
on his knees, his forehead on his knotty hands. Without, the 
snow was falling steadily — a white, moving wall, seen dimly 
through the small, square window. 

Within the hut, as without, a profound stillness reigned. In 
front of the blaze, the old hound of the trapper lay serenely 
sleeping. The fiames did not so much as flicker. The silence was 
unbroken. 

Puccoon’s eyes were half-shut. Of what was he thinking? He 
could scarcely have answered that question — but chiefly of his be- 
loved Fanny. 

After a while he began to mutter something — vaguely and indis- 
tinctly. An apathetic sadness seemed to take possession of him. 
The flame assumed weird shapes, and danced before his eyes. 
Then his eyes slowly closed. His head drooped lower on his two 
hands. He had fallen into a doze. 

Suddenly he started up. Had he been asleep? Had he been 
dreaming ? He thought he had heard steps in the snow without, 
approaching the hut. He rose to his feet, looking around him and 
listening. Nothing. Not a sound disturbed the deep silence. 
Through the window he could see the snow steadily descending. 

“Pve been asleep!” he muttered, shaking himself like a dog. 
Then he added : 

“ I must have been dreaming.” 

He remained motionless, listening with the silent intensity of a 
hunter endeavoring to catch the faint footfalls of the game. Noth- 
ing. 

All at once he thought he heard the sound again, and went 
quickly to the door. The snow was driven by a sudden gust into 
his face. 

“ That blinds a body !” he said. 

He saw nothing. 

“ I must ’a’ been dreaming,” he repeated. 

He then closed the door, went back to his seat, and sat down, 
resting his elbows on his knees as before. If he had'turned his 

228 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


229 


head, he might have seen something. That something was the 
head of a man outside the window. The head was covered by a 
black hat, on which the snow had fallen thickly, and the eyes 
under the hat were calm and penetrating. 

Puccoon fell again into a doze, carrying the fantastic outlines of 
the flames with him into slumber-land. He was thus crouching 
down, with his back to the door, when something singular hap- 
pened ! The door slowly opened, the flgure of a man appeared on 
the threshold, and coming into the hut, approached the stooping 
form of the trapper. 

Puccoon must have been sound asleep. He did not stir. But the 
instinct of the hound was keener. He suddenly sprung up with a 
hoarse growl, showing a double-row of formidable teeth, and Puc- 
coon, waked by the noise, started to his feet, turning around and 
facing the man. 

As he caught sight of the man’s face he retreated two steps, 
looking at him with distended eyes. 

“ The man of the swamp !” he exclaimed. 

The intruder extended his left hand and closed the door. He 
then unbuckled from around his neck a sort of cape which the 
snow had whitened, let it fall on the floor, and remained standing 
in front of Puccoon, lithe and powerful. He was wholly unarmed. 

“ Yes,” he said ; “ I see you know me.” 

His voice was low, grave, and had a sort of tremor in it. He 
looked round as he spoke. 

“ You !” said Puccoon, still gazing at him with vague wonder. 

“ Yes, friend — I call you friend, though you have tried to kill me 
more than once. You recognize me, I see, in spite of my change 
of dress. You flred on me — you will not Are on me to-night. Let 
us talk, friend.” 

He had turned his head, and was looking toward the little room 
in rear of the cabin. 

“ She is there !” he said, in a low tone, to himself. As he uttered 
these words his whole face grew soft — a wonderful expression of 
tenderness filled his dark eyes. 

“ She is there ! — there ! — within a few feet of me !” he repeated. 

Puccoon had not uttered a word. The hound, understanding, ap- 
parently, that the intentions of the intruder were not hostile, had 
retreated to his master’s side, and stood with his head lowered, his 
eyes fixed upon the man — waiting. 

The man was looking still toward the little room, and seemed to 
be listening. Was it for the low breathing of a person asleep? 
His head had sunk upon his breast. Not his face only, but his 
whole frame, seemed to have softened. 

20 


230 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


After a moment he looked at Puccoon. He then went and sat 
down in the chair opposite the stool. 

“ Friend !” he said. 

Puccoon fixed his eyes upon him, warily. 

“ I have something to say to you.” 

He pointed, as he spoke, to the stool, and Puccoon sat down, still 
gazing at him. 

“Something took place here nearly seven years ago,” said the 
man, in his low, grave voice. “ I will tell you what this something 
was.” 

Puccoon listened with his old expression of vague astonishment. 

“ You had been out hunting, probably, and had remained away all 
day. You lived in this hut by yourself. You did not expect to 
find any human being here on your return, but you found — a 
child.” 

“ Yes,” said Puccoon, in a low tone. 

“ The child was wrapped in a cloak, and was asleep. You no 
doubt looked at the poor little one sleeping, and pitied her, won- 
dering where she came from. You did not hesitate what to do. 
You took the child to your heart.” 

He stopped a moment, and then went on : 

“ I have come now to tell you about the child. You have been a 
father to her — it was her real father who left her in your charge. 
He was a desperate man, and was going on a desperate undertaking 
— not criminal, whatever the law might say, but desperate. He in- 
tended to return in two hours, and repossess himself of the child, 
but something happened to him — he was prevented from returning 
— the child remained with you, and has grown up. Her name is 
the one you found upon her clothing — Fanny Gontran.” 

The face melted more and more as he spoke. The man’s breast 
heaved. 

“ I have seen her all these years— looking from the bushes— I 
have not spoken to her. I had no home for her. I was content to 
know that she was happy !” 

Tears came to his eyes. 

“ My child !— she is there !— I shall speak to her !” 

“ No!” exclaimed Puccoon, loudly. 

The man started at these words. 

“ She is not there !” said Puccoon. And he burst forth with an 
account of the accident which had happened to Fanny. Puccoon’s 
narrative was rude and abrupt, but it told the listener everything. 
Plis emotion was profound*. 

“ She is suffering — suffering ! You have seen her!” 

“ Yes !” 



IIK WEM ANE KNEET PQWN ANP JvISSEP THE PILLOW ANP SOEEEP.”— P. 231. 








JUSTIN HARLEY. 


231 


“ Oh ! my child ! — my Fanny !” 

His face sunk into his two hands. His frame shook. Puccoon, 
looking at him, felt in his rough way the full extent of this emo- 
tion. 

“ He is her father !” he inuttered. 

“Oh yes! yes!” said the man, raising his head, and allowing 
Puccoon to see that his face was wet with tears. “ Her father ! — 
. could you doubt that? Men like me do not shed tears for other 
people’s children ! And I shall not see her to-night ! I shall not 
listen to her voice ! I thought she was asleep there in her little 
chamber, with the flowers growing around the window, where I 
have seen her sitting so often !” 

He fixed his eyes upon the door. Suddenly he rose and went 
and opened it. Puccoon started — the Lady of the Snow was not 
there ! The bright firelight streamed through upon the little white 
bed, the poor furniture, the small table with its few books, and the 
window protected by a white curtain. 

The man went into the little room, walking with the air of one 
treading upon sacred ground. Turning his head slowly from side 
to side, he embraced at a glance every object. His eyes were then 
fixed upon the small bed, with its white coverlid and snowy pillow. 
He went and knelt down, and kissed the pillow and sobbed. 

Puccoon was looking at him with dull wonder, and was conscious 
of only one thought — this man was his child’s father, and was com- 
ing to take her from him. But he had the right to do that — the 
father had the right to take his child — and he — he — Puccoon — he 
would soon be dead. The trapper uttered a groan, looking at the 
man, who had risen and stood by the table on which lay the books. 
One of these caught his eye. It was a Bible, and taking it up, he 
came back to the fire, murmuring, 

“ This is my child’s !” 

He had opened it as he approached the fire, and glanced at the 
fly-leaf. Upon this leaf was written, in a woman’s hand, “ Augusta 
Chandos.” 

When his eyes fell upon this name, the man’s face filled wdth a 
sudden wonder. Then he turned quickly. 

“ Whose Bible is this, friend ? — tell me ! tell me !” 

The strange voice mastered Puccoon. 

“ The Lady of the Snow’s !” 

“ Who is she f Why do you call her so ?” 

Puccoon, thrown off his guard, told his story — how he had found 
the poor wanderer, how she had remained with them, and how she 
and Fanny had come to love each other. 

“ Where is she !” exclaimed the stranger. 


232 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Puccoon had been in a maze ever since the door opened and he 
^had seen that the lady was not in the room. 

“ Oh ! I know now ! I know !” he shouted. “ She’s stole away, 
and gone to the child ! She’s followed my steps ! It was while I 
was asleep there !” 

The man of the swamp had sunk down into the chair. 

“ Heaven sent her — to her child !” he murmured. 

And seated opposite each other, with eyes fixed on the fire, the 
real father and the man who had taken his place remained sunk in 
thought — the old hound sleeping between them, the snow still 
descending, the slow hours passing without the exchange of 
another word. 

At last, worn out by his long tramp that day, Puccoon let his 
head fell on his breast, lost consciousness and fell asleep. 

He did not awake until daylight, and then it was with a cold 
shiver. 

His fire was out. 

He looked around him for the man. He was nowhere to be 
seen. 




CHAPTER LVIII. 

ST. LEGER RECEIVES HIS ORDERS. 

The sun rose clear and brilliant on the morning following these 
scenes, burnishing the vast expanse of snow, glittering on the 
icicles depending from the trees, and filling everything with joy 
and silent laughter. 

Sainty Harley leaped from bed, wakened by the flashing light, 
and making a hasty but careful toilet — admiring as he did so his 
budding moustache in the mirror — descended to the breakfast- 
room, where he consumed a sufficient amount of savory old ham 
and muffins to have satisfied a ploughman. He then started up, 
begged Harley and St. Leger to excuse him, and rushed forth, evi- 
dently with some precise object in view. 

In half an hour the youth’s programme for the day was seen. 
There drove up to the door — or, to speak more precisely, Sainty 
Harley drove up to the door — a large and elegant sleigh, to which 
were attached four long-tailed and glossy horses, champing their 
bits and pawing the snow impatiently. 

Sainty’s face was radiant with joy and youthful excitement. 

“ I say, brother, did you ever see a finer team than that?” he 
exclaimed. “ I’ve got Selim and Nelly in the lead, and they are 
beauties, ain’t they ?” 

He then administered to the beauties a cut of his whip which 
made them jump ; and, relinquishing the reins to a youthful and 
highly-delighted groom, who sat beside him, leaped out and ran 
up the steps. 

“ I’m going to drive out some of the fair sex to-day !” he laughed, 
“ and I’d like to see ’em find fault with that turnout ! I say, Mr. 
St. Leger, don’t you want to come along with us? And you, too, 
brother ! You are cooping yourselLup in the house to that extent 
that your face is growing white, and you are moping— moping, 
brother !” 

Harley smiled with kindly affection. 

“ Thank you, Sainty ! I believe I won’t ride to-day. Where are 
you going?” 

The youth colored a little. 

“To— to— the fact is, I promised, the first snow, that I would 
bring the sleigh ” 


20 * 


233 



234 


JVSTIN HARLEY. 


“ To Blandfield ? Well, that was gallant !” said Harley. “ Ladies 
like sleigh-riding Get the bear-skin. It may be cold.” 

Sainty Harley was plainly relieved. 

“ I was going to ask you to lend it to me, brother. None of your 
common blanket-wrappings ! A bear-skin ! — a real bear-skin from 
the banks of the Danube! brought by his Excellency, Justin Har- 
ley, Esq., on his return from his travels !” 

Harley looked with kindly sweetness at the youth. His fresh 
accents and joyous laughter evidently pleased him. 

“ You are very welcome to the bear-skin, my dear Sainty,” he 
said, “ and I hope you will have a happy day 1” 

There was no exhibition of emotion on Harley’s part as he 
uttered these words. Never had the expression of his face been 
more kindly. St. Leger looked at him with curious interest. He 
suspected the presence of some latent sorrow in the calm man 
standing before him, but saw no trace of any such thing in him ; 
the composed countenance defied him. 

Sainty had secured the bear-skin, and sprung into the vehicle, 
his groom beside him. The lash rose and fell upon the impatient 
Selim and Nelly in the lead ; they jumped and simultaneously 
stood erect, pawing the air ; then, held firmly by the youth, who 
was an excellent driver, as nearly all Virginia boys are, they began 
to move in steady, regular leaps, came down to their work, and the 
sleigh darted down the hill, the bells ringing merrily. 

As it passed through the great gate and flew in the direction of 
Blandfield, Sainty raised his cap and waved it around his curly 
head in token of farewell. Then the brilliant equipage disap- 
peared, and the merry jingle of the bells steadily died away, and 
was no more heard. 

St. Leger was looking after the sleigh. 

“ Youth is a superb thing !” he said, “ and Sainty is brimfull of 
it. A most lovable youngster !” 

“ Is he not?” said Harley. 

“ Pity you can’t catch a little of the boy’s sunshine 1 I never 
saw a man look so sad. Come, cheer up, old fellow !” 

“ So you think I am sad ?” 

Harley smiled with his gentle, patient expression. 

“ Sad unto death !” said St. Leger. 

“ What a fancy, friend ! Where is the good of being sad ? Men 
grow thoughtful, perhaps, as they go on in life, and look at things 
more philosophically than in boyhood. But, after all, time glides 
away for them as for the gay people. They acquire the habit of 
living it is a fatiguing habit sometimes— but let us cease this idle 
talk. There is Dick with the mail.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


235 


A servant was seen returning from the neighboring post-town, 
and soon came up, handing Harley the letter-bag. It contained 
two letters — one for each of the friends. As St. Leger opened his, 
and looked at it, his countenance fell, and he uttered a slight 
exclamation. Harley, who was attentively reading his own letter, 
with an air of deep absorption, raised his head. 

“ What is the matter ?" he said. 

“ Read !” said St. Leger, handing him the letter. 

Harley took it and glanced at it. It was from the Governor at 
Williamsburg, and contained but a few lines. His Excellency 
begged leave to inform Mr. St. Leger that his report for the Home 
Government was at last finished, and he w'ould be much gratified 
to have it transmitted by Mr. St. Leger’s hands to its destination 
in London, at as early a moment as suited Mr. St. Leger’s conveni- 
ence. 

“Orders, you see,” said the young man, looking quite melancholy. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I must go at last ; my time is up.” 

“ Well, you know our arrangement? I am going with you.” 

“ You adhere to that resolution ?” 

“ Certainly ! Nothing has occurred to make me change my 
mind. In three days all the business which detains me in this 
country will be finished, and then, my dear friend, we will take 
ship together.” 

St. Leger felt that Harley’s determination was deliberate, and 
that it would be idle to oppose it. 

“ Well— well,” he said, “ I will then write to his Excellency that 
in three days I shall be at his orders. 'You, too, have a letter.” 

“ Yes,” said Harley, in a low tone, “ and a very singular one.” 

“ From whom ?” 

“To tell you would excite your curiosity, and involve a long 
story, which I only feel myself equal to when we have begun our 
voyage. I wdll then tell you everything.” 

“ Everything ?” 

“ The history of my life.” 

“ Ah !” 

“ You would like to hear it ?” 

“ Yes — yes, indeed !” 

“ You shall hear it, then, and you will find it a singular experi- 
ence, with some strange incidents. This letter clears up one 
mystery which has long puzzled me.” 

“ The letter?” 

“ It is from a person whom you have heard Puccoon speak of. I 
might as well tell you.” 


236 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ You mean ” 

“ The man of the swamp.” 

Harley finished the perusal, and folding up the letter, placed it 
in his pocket. 

“ It concerns you, too,” he added, quietly ; “ but all this will soon 
be explained. It is truly strange. Now, my dear friend, I must go 
and see Saunders. Amuse yourself as you can until dinner time. 
After dinner, we have an engagement, you know, to ride together 
to Blandfield, where I have an appointment with Judge Bland.” 

This terminated the conversation, and Harley went to see Saun- 
ders. On his return, the friends dined together ; and in the after- 
noon they set out on horseback for Blandfield, 



V 



CHAPTER LIX. 

CROSS-PURPOSES. 

It was twilight when the friends reached Blandfield, which 
raised its old walls now in the midst of nearly leafless trees from 
its snow-covered knoll. 

The old African major-domo came at their summons, and with 
the deferential urbanity of the old Virginia homestead servants, re- 
quested them to walk in. 

Harley asked for Judge Bland. The old servant replied that his 
master had been called away in the morning on business, but had 
directed him, if Mr. Harley came, to ask him to walk up to his 
study — he would soon be back. 

This announcement seemed to relieve Harley of some embarrass* 
ment. He had dreaded an interview with Evelyn, feeling how ex- 
tremely awkward and disagreeable it must be ; and this invitation 
from her father to repair to his study came to his succor. 

“ I will go up, then, my friend,” he said. “ When the Judge 
comes back, inform him that I am here.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Will you go up, St. Leger ?” 

“ N-o,” said St. Leger. “ I think — that is — I’ll find it more 
cheerful in — Mrs. Bland’s room, where I always go, you know. I 
would not like to interrupt your business interview by my pre- 
sence.” 

Harley smiled. 

“ She is there, is she not ?” he said. “ You know the person 
whom I refer to as she 

St. Leger blushed like a boy. 

“ Well— yes.” 

“ I thought so. See how penetrating I am. It was natural, how- 
ever, that little Miss Fanny should be taken thither, instead of 
being carried up-stairs with her broken arm.” 

“ Well, she is there ; they have made a little bed for her by the 
side of Mrs. Bland’s,” said St. Leger, “ and as I’m a friend of the 
family, and Mrs. Bland’s chamber is drawing-room number two, 
I’ll go in !” 

Harley nodded and went up-stairs. As he disappeared, sleigh- 
bells came jingling up the hill, and soon the fine sleigh of Sainty 
237 



238 


4 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


stopped at the door, discharging Miss Annie Bland and a young 
lady friend staying with her, which personages, with two or three 
other young damsels of the neighborhood, had shared the perils 
and delights of the sleigh-ride that day. 

Just as the sleigh was driven away from the door by the youth’s 
groom — for Sainty had evidently no intention of going home im- 
mediately — carriage- wheels were heard : they stopped at the door; 
a step was heard in the passage : this step ascended the stairs ; and 
Harley, who had seated himself near the fire, saw Judge Bland 
enter. 

The old gentleman came forward, smiling cordially, and shook 
his guest by the hand. 

“ I hope I have not kept you waiting, my dear Mr. Harley,” he 
said ; “ and I was so ill-bred as to leave directions that you should 
be asked up to my study instead of the drawing-room. Pardon 
me. In truth I was much absorbed, and only thought of the hxm- 
ness phase of your visit.” 

“ I beg you will not let that annoy you, sir ! — a trifie ! You have 
been riding out?” 

“ Yes.” 

The voice of the old counsellor was, as always, cordial, smiling, 
and full of a charming courtesy. He took from his shoulders an 
enormous old cloak of blue cloth with a fur collar, and secured at 
the neck by a massive silver chain and buckle. 

“ I have been to Oakhill.” 

“ Ah ? To see my uncle ?” 

“Yes. He requested me to come and see him on some legal 
business. He seems much weaker, but is sitting up in his dressing- 
gown.” 

“ I am truly glad to hear it.” 

“ He is growing old now. He is one of my contemporaries. We 
old people are passing away— I am myself among the last, and it 
really seems as if I were going to die in harness !” 

“ I hope it will be long before you put off your harness, my dear 
sir.” 

“ Ah ! you young people ! you young people ! It is necessary to 
be old to feel what age is.” 

Harley inclined his head. 

“ I am the old man of my family,” he said— “ it is Sainty who is 
the young one.” 

The Judge had taken his seat in his arm-chair, at the corner of 
the table, whereon the tall candlesticks rose, as usual, above the 
chaos of law-papers, and, leaning back, crossed one leg over the 
other, resting his elbows, as he did so, upon the arms of his chair, 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


239 


and joining the tips of his fingers. The slender legs, from which 
he had just removed the heavy cloth wrappings designed to protect 
them from the cold, were cased in knee-breeches and silk stockings, 
and on his feet were shoes with large steel-buckles. A very long 
waistcoat, slightly embroidered, was buttoned nearly to his chin, 
allowing only a small quantity of ruffle to be seen ; his chin reposed 
in a voluminous white cravat — his gray hair was powdered. Judge 
Bland, as he sat thus in the full light of the cheerful hickory fire, 
was the model of a gentleman of the old school. 

When Harley referred to his brother Sainty as the young person 
of his family, the Judge gazed at his hands, gently moving the 
fingers whose tips touched, and said : 

“ Your brother’s name introduces a subject upon which, with your 
permission, Mr. Harley, we will say a few words. The other busi- 
ness will not sufier.” 

“ I am quite willing to have it deferred, my dear sir,” replied 
Harley. 

“ I may as well say, however, to relieve any anxiety you may 
feel, that Mr. Hicks will find it an extremely difficult and tedious 
afiair to force a sale of the Huntsdon property, inasmuch as the 
land-law of Virginia is framed in fiindamental hostility to forced 
and unfair subjection of real estate to the payment, especially, of 
, such claims.” 

Harley inclined his head. 

“ Indeed,” said Judge Bland -forgetting, apparently, from interest 
in this subject, the announcement that he would defer a discussion 
of the Hicks business—' indeed, the common law of England, which 
(I need scarcely inform you) is the law of Virginia, seems to have 
been wisely shaped to disappoint usurers and money-lenders in 
their schemes to prey upon their fellows. It permits no man to 
come with a peremptory writ to the father of a family, and say, 

‘ You owe me money ! Go out of this house, with your wife and 
children, and give me possession.’ Much less will the courts, pro- 
ceeding upon a fair and liberal construction of the law, permit land 
to be set up for peremptory sale to satisfy a debt of far less value 
than the property, thus placing it in the power of the credit or to 
purchase it — a design which may be attributed in this case, without 
injustice, I think, to Mr. Hicks.” 

“ Such is no doubt his designs, sir.” 

“ Whoever asks the aid of an equity court must do equity,” con- 
[ tinued the old counsellor, “ and I am tolerably certain that the 
i General Court will not decree a sale in this case. What I am ab- 
i solutely sure of, however, my dear Mr. Harley, is the fact that a 
f suit in Chancery involving land, entailed or not, is a most tedious 


240 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


affair. The wise provisions of the law render it wellnigh impossible 
to — cut short a Chancery suit !” 

The old lawyer smiled. 

“ It will take a long time for Mr. Hicks to reach any result,” he 
added ; “ and now that we have finished with that affair, let us — 
leaving the business of the deed for the present — come back to a 
more personal matter, my dear Mr. Harley.” 

“ A more personal matter, sir ?” 

Harley looked with some curiosity at Judge Bland, who had 
become grave, though his suave cordiality had never diminished. 

“We were speaking of your brother — of Sainty, as we all call him 
— for he is a very great favorite with us.” 

“ I am truly gratified to hear that assurance, sir.” 

“ And I may add that, in common with my whole family, I have 
a very high opinion of him.” 

Harley bowed. It was plain that he was in no slight measure 
gratified. 

“ I have mentioned this personal regard which we all feel for your 
brother, Mr. Harley, in order to let you understand that, in hesi- 
tating now to reply to a proposal made by this young gentleman, I 
have not been actuated* by any ill opinion of him — very far from it, 
I assure you.” 

“ A proposal, sir? — a proposal to you, from — my brother?” 

“ He asks my consent to his union with my daughter.” 

Harley made no reply. A sudden chill came to his heart. 

“ The proposition was made to me in a brief interview, this 
morning, just as I was leaving Blandfield,” said Judge Bland. 

“ Yes, sir,” Harley said, in a low tone. 

I was in some haste, and should on that account have refrained 
from giving Mr. Harley a definite reply,” continued the Judge, 
“ but there was still another consideration which withheld me.” 

Harley quietly inclined his head, in token that he was listening. 
He felt quite unable to command his voice. 

“ I refer,” said Judge Bland, “to the obvious propriety of a pre- 
vious interview with yourself. Your brother is young, and you 
stand to him in loco parentis. You are thus entitled, \)y every rule 
of courtesy and propriety, to be consulted in a matter so intimately 
connected with his future.” 

Harley made a deprecating movement of his hand, as though to 
signify that he regarded this proceeding as unnecessary. 

** « informed my young friend,” added the old counsel- 

lor, “that I would beg him to allow me some hours for reflection — 
knowing that you would call upon me this evening, and desiring to 
speak with you before giving him my reply.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


241 


Harley had listened with a sinking heart. Then his worst fears 
were realized. Sainty had a^nounced his intention, in their first 
and last interview on the subject— that on their return from Bland- 
field after the scene at the rustic seat— to proceed with his court- 
ship, ascertaining thus what his fate was to be ; and now, since he 
had asked J udge Bland’s consent there could be but one conclusion, 
namely, that the consent of the young lady — of Evelyn — had been 
obtained. It was this conviction which now entered his heart like 
a sudden chill. She was lost to him ! 

A thousand thoughts chased each other through his mind, utterly 
depressing him.. Had he clung to a last hope— if it could be called 
such— that Sainty might offer his hand, be rejected, and, with the 
mercurial spirit of youth, soon recover from the blow, and turn his 
attentions elsewhere ? Had he buoyed up his smiling heart with 
the thought, “ This is a mere evanescent affair — it will pass — may 
not come to a declaration ?” Had he hoped against hope — leaning 
desperately on the doctrine of chances? If so, it had broken, and 
he had Mien, quite stunned. 

“May I request your views upon this very important family 
business, Mr. Harley ?” 

He woke up, as it were. 

“ My views, sir?” 

Harley looked with vacant eyes at Judge Bland— or rather at 
some object beyond him, in the far distance. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Harley grew suddenly conscious of the extreme discourtesy of 
his words and manner, which were easily liable to be misunder- 
stood. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, recovering his calmness by an effort ; 
“ these — affairs — are, as you know, sir, calculated to surprise one.” 

“ Yes, yes! I assure you I was myself much surprised.” 

“ And it was in order to request my views upon this union that 
you have deferred your response, sir ?” 

“Chiefly, Mr. Harley.” 

“ I can have but one thing to say, my dear Judge Bland,” Harley 
replied ; “ and you cannot have doubted, I think, what my views 
would be. I feel very highly gratified at the prospect of my 
brother’s alliance with a family so old and honorable as your own, 
and am sure that nothing more fortunate could have happened for 
Sainty.” 

Judge Bland smiled cordially. 

“ Then he shall have my consent at once,” he replied. “ The 
marriage may be deferred until next year, but my approbation 
shall be given now.” 


21 


242 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Harley braced his muscles for the struggle, and said, 

“ Why should it be deferred until next year, sir — unless the 
young lady demand it ?” 

The Judge smiled again. 

“ I am unable to say what the wishes of my daughter are, as she 
has not consulted me in this romantic affair. I speak as an old 
gentleman making business arrangements. The chief objection to 
a present union is the age of the parties — more especially of my 
daughter.” 

“ Her— age ?” 

“ Yes, my dear sir. I am well aware that in Virginia it is the 
practice to marry early ; but it is an injudicious custom.” 

Harley looked at the speaker with some surprise. Evelyn was 
between nineteen and twenty. 

“ My own grandmother was married to my grandfather when she 
was but thirteen” said Judge Bland, “ and such unions are not very 
unusual ; certainly a large number take place when the bride is 
under sixteen. But there are surely many reasons for regarding 
such matches as injudicious — reasons which must be obvious to 
any reflecting person.” 

Harley was more and more amazed. What was Judge Bland 
aiming at. 

“ I shall therefore give your brother my consent, Mr. Harley,” 
continued the Judge ; “ but must attach to it the condition that his 
union shall not take place until after New- Year, when Annie will 
be seventeen, and he will be I suppose ” 

“ Annie !” 

The word came from Harley’s lips in an outburst. Judge Bland 
actually started. 

“ You seem greatly astonished, my dear sir!” 

“Annie!” 

“Assuredly !— were we not speaking of my daughter Annie?” 

Harley felt as the shipwrecked mariner clinging to a plank in 
mid-ocean feels when he sees a ship, and knows that they have 
caught sight of his signal for rescue. 

“ is it possible ! Oh ! yes ! how blind I was !— then— then— it is 
Annie that my boy wishes to marry ?” 

“ Certainly. Did you suppose that it was Evelyn ?” 

^‘Such was my impression, sir,” said Harley, restraining his 
emotion by a violent effort, but scarcely able to conceal it. 

The old Judge laughed. 

“ Evelyn would fancy herself much too old, I think,” he said. 
“At least there is no question of that union, my friend. It is 
Annie ! — Annie — not Evelyn at all !” 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


243 


Before Harley could respond, steps were heard ascending the 
stairs : they stopped at the door ; there was a silence — the silence 
of hesitation and confusion, evidently — then a low and timid 
knock. 

“ Come in !” said the old Judge. 

Whereupon Sainty Harley, looking very sheepish, downcast and 
nervous, entered the room. 

Harley rose, went to him, and took his hand. 

“ Don’t be uneasy, Sainty,” he said, laughing. “We old gentle- 
men have been discussing your matters, and you are certain not to 
be very much cast down by the result of the discussion. Judge 
Bland consents to your union with Miss Annie, only stipulating 
that the marriage shall not take place until next year.” 

Sainty’s face burst into sunshine. 

“ Oh ! thank you, Judge Bland ! I’m so happy. Judge !” 

Harley looked at him with pride and happiness. 

“ Well, sit down, Sainty,” he said, “ and listen to Judge Bland’s 
views, and the expression of his wishes. I will not intrude upon 
your interview, but await you down stairs.” 

Harley thereupon retired, closing the door behind him. 



CHAPTER LX. 

THE RECOGNITION. 

It will be remembered that when Harley had ascended the 
staircase to keep his appointment with Judge Bland, St. Leger had 
gone in the direction of Mrs. Bland’s chamber, which was on the 
right of the hall, in rear of the dining-room. 

This apartment, as we have said, was used by the friends of the 
family as a sort of supplementary sitting-room. Whenever the 
weather was at all chill, a cheerful fire might be found there, 
blazing merrily in the large fireplace; the room, with its snowy 
bed and drugget carpet, was a model of neatness ; and the aged 
Mrs. Bland might be seen seated in her great “ invalid arm-chair” 
knitting busily, smiling, and prepared to welcome all comers. 

Into this apartment Fanny had been taken on her arrival, for 
the very reason suggested by Harley — that the pain she suffered 
from her broken arm rendered it desirable that she should not be 
carried up-stairs, if possible. There was no obstacle whatever to 
making a couch for the little sufferer in Mrs. Bland’s room;. one 
was speedily arranged, therefore, near the fire, and Fanny had 
been regularly installed. 

St. Leger went and knocked at the door. 

“ Come in !” said the cheerful voice of the old lady, whereupon 
St. Leger opened the door, advanced two steps into the apartment, 
then, with a great start, he all at once stopped. 

There before him, seated beside Fanny’s little couch, and hold- 
ing the girl’s hand, was the Lady of the Snow. 

She was, clad from head to foot in black ; her face was pale and 
subdued in expression ; in her large eyes, looking out sadly from 
her still beautiful face, could be read a strange pathos and tender- 
ness. 

St. Leger recognized at a single glance the person whom he and 
Harley had encountered on the night of their return from Wil- 
liamsburg, as chief actress in the company of strolling-players, 
whom he had seen a second time, haunting like a phantom the 
grounds of Huntsdon, and gazing up at the light in Harley’s 
window. 

244 



40 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 245 

“ You !” he exclaimed. 

She looked at him calmly, but her heart could be seen, and 
almost heard, beating. 

“ Yes,” she murmured, letting her head sink. 

“ Is it possible !” stammered St. Leger, unable to regain all at 
once his self-possession. 

“ I see you remember me !” came from the pale lips of the Lady 
of the Snow, in a sort of whisper. 

St. Leger stood looking at her in perfect silence for at least a 
minute. He then seemed to become aware, for the first time, how 
singular this sudden recognition must appear to the other occu- 
pants of the chamber; and, recovering his self-possession by an 
efibrt, he bowed and came in, closing the door. 

All eyes had been fixed upon him, and from his face the curious 
glances had passed to the face of the Lady of the Snow. 

The persons who indicated in this silent but significant manner 
their astonishment at the scene were Miss Clementina and Evelyn. 
The former sat in one corner of the fireplace waving a large fan in 
front of her face — her inveterate habit, — the other (Evelyn) was 
leaning back in an arm-chair near her, with Mrs. Bland opposite, 
in her great chair at the foot of the bed, beside which sat the pale 
lady. 

Evelyn was quite thin and white ; she looked and listened with 
vague excitement. Miss Clementina, on the contrary, was flushed 
with sudden interest. Her quick wits, stimulated by suspicion, had 
instantly caught the clue to this mysterious scene. 

“ You seem to know this lady,” said Clementina, very quietly, 
addressing St. Leger. 

“ No, madam !” he replied, in a low tone, after hesitating for a 
moment. 

“ She is not then— an old acquaintance, sir?” 

There was an almost imperceptible accent of satire in Miss Clem- 
entina’s tones. St. Leger became suddenly aware of this lurking 
sentiment, and felt that it was necessary for him to be on his 
guard. 

“ No, madam, I have not even the pleasure of a slight acquaint- 
ance with this lady,” he said, quietly. 

He came and stood beside the bed. 

“ I hope you are better,” he said to Fanny, looking at her with 
the deepest affection. “ Does your arm hurt you ?” 

“ Very little,” Fanny replied, smiling ; “ and everybody is so good 
to me.” 

She looked affectionately at Mrs. Bland, who from her deafness 
had missed the whole of the scene just described, and then at the 

21 * 


246 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


lady holding her hand, and gazing at her with a slight color in her 
cheeks. 

St. Leger was still looking at Fanny with the ardent eyes of a 
lover, when he heard the door behind him open and close. He 
looked around. Miss Clementina and Evelyn had disappeared. 

That disappearance evidently meant mischief. In fact. Miss 
Clementina was wellnigh bursting with pent-up excitement. When 
St. Leger went toward Fanny’s bedside. Miss Clementina had 
glanced at Evelyn, made a sign to her, risen, and they had left the 
apartment together. 

No sooner had Miss Clementina closed the door and found her- 
self and Evelyn alone together in the hall, than she seized the 
young lady by the arm, put her lips to her ear, and said : 

“ I knew it !” 

“ Knew what?” murmured Evelyn, with white cheeks. 

“ I knew this was — the woman !” 

She drew the young lady along, and they went into the drawing- 
room. It w’as entirely unoccupied. 

“You saw,” exclaimed Miss Clementina, “he recognized her!” 

Evelyn had sunk into a seat ; she made no reply. 

“ She is the woman ! Remember what you told me of your in- 
terview with Mr. St. Leger, and how he was unable to deny that he 
and Mr. Harley had met a woman — an actress in a company of 
strolling players — on his return from Williamsburg! Remember 
how startled and confused Mr. St. Leger looked, you informed me ! 
Remember that this woman — this woman — was heard to exclaim 
‘Justin Harley! I thought he was dead. Now I will have my 
rights !” ’ 

“ Oh, no ! no ! it cannot — cannot be !” 

The words burst from the young lady in a sort of cry. 

“ Wait and see !” said Miss Clementina, with a cool, decisive 
look ; she had been steadied, as it were, by her excitement. “ Wait 
and see!” And meanwhile ask yourself who this mysterious 
woman can be, if not that woman? Who is she? What is her 
name? You can find out nothing. She rushes in here, dropping 
down from the clouds, giving no name, not accounting for herself, 
depending on our good breeding to be received without questions. 
A friend of Fanny’s !— that is all we are told ! And now, Mr. St. 
Leger comes, and recognizes her, and ” 

Evelyn uttered a gasp, and flushed suddenly. 

“ Who — is she ?” came from her trembling lips. 

Miss Clementina bent over. 

“ Whom do people say she is ?” she whispered. 

Evelyn looked at her with startled eyes. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


247 


“ People say she is Mrs. Justin Harley !” 

As Miss Clementina uttered these words, sleigh hells were heard 
coming up the hill, and in a few moments Sainty Harley appeared, 
ushering in Miss Annie Bland, looking like a small rosebud, and 
her friend, who burst into joyous exclamations all about their de- 
lightful ride, after which they ran up-stairs to “take off their 
things.” Sainty Harley, hearing from Miss Clementina that Judge 
Bland had returned, followed them, going with a cowardly beating 
of the heart to the old lawyer’s study. As w’e have seen, Harley 
thereupon rose, and, leaving them together, came down stairs. 

The interval had left Miss Clementina and Evelyn but a few 
moments for additional conversation. 

“ i hurried out with you,” said Miss Clementina, “ to tell you this, 
Evelyn, and to say that I am certain that this unknown woman 
is — well, is the person Mr. St. Leger and Mr. Harley met — the one 
who would ‘ have her rights now,^ as Mr. Harley was not dead ! So 
be on your guard! — take care ! — all eyes will be fixed upon you 1 — 
take care ! 

“ It is unnecessary to warn me, aunt !” said Evelyn, as pale as 
death again. ‘ I trust I shall not disgrace myself.” 

“ Do not give people an opportunity of repeating what they have 
already said — that you are fond of Mr. Harley, who returns your 
feelings wdth one of regard simply, froip indifference, or from 
having one wife already !” 

Evelyn moaned. It needed all her pride to remain calm under 
this lash. 

“ Avoid all interviews with Mr. Harley 1 He is up-stairs now ; 
he was to come this evening to see your father on business, and I 
heard him go up.” 

“ I shall certainly avoid him,” said Evelyn, in a low tone. 

As she spoke, steps were heard descending the stairs. 

“ He is coming down 1” exclaimed Miss Clementina, starting up. 

Evelyn rose as suddenly. The thought of an interview with 
Harley at the moment seemed to appall her. 

“ I will go to my room.” 

“No, there is not time. You would meet him on the stairs.” 

Evelyn ran to the folding=doors opening into the drawing-room 
in rear of the front one. But this was only used on occasions of 
ceremony, and the door was locked. 

“ Oh ! what shall I do ? I will not see him 1” she cried. < 

The steps came steadily down the staircase. 

“ You must go into your grandmother’s room ! He will not come ‘ 
into that room unless he is invited. 

“ Yes 1 yes 1” 


248 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“Come, Evelyn! There is just time. Yes, I agree with you. 
You must avoid all attempts at explanation on his part. Come I” 
Seizing the young lady by the arm. Miss Clementina almost 
dragged her into the hall, toward Mrs. Bland’s chamber. 

There was just time for them to pass unseen. Harley had reached 
the second floor, and was at the head of the lower staircase. For- 
tunately the abutment concealed the two ladies. They hastened 
through the hall, reached the door of Mrs. Bland’s chamber, and 
entering, closed the door just as Harley came down. 




A LOW LAUGH CAME FROM THE DOOR-WAY,”— P. 249 . 






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CHAPTER LXI. 

Harley’s “little sister.” 

Anybody who had looked at Justin Harley as he entered the 
drawing-room, in the full light streaming from the tall silver candle- 
stick, would have been struck with the resplendent expression of 
his face. 

Gloom, sadness, unrest, seemed to have been swept from his 
forehead as the shadow of a cloud is swept from a landscape by the 
wind. His face glowed, his eyes sparkled. He had begun to stoop 
a little of late, and to drag his feet as he walked ; now his head rose 
superbly erect, and, as he entered the drawing-room, his step was 
elastic, his feet were planted firmly and strongly as before ; the man 
was, all over, from head to foot, in bearing of person as in expres- 
sion of face, the picture of joy, hope, happiness. 

Some music was lying on the harpsichord. He went and took it 
up, thinking, “ Her hand had touched this !” A little glove lay be- 
side it which he had seen on the hand of Evelyn. He took it and 
pressed it to his lips. 

As he did so, a low laugh came from the doorway, and, blushing 
like a boy, Harley turned round. He saw before him the plump 
young figure of Miss Annie Bland, who was looking at him with 
her mischievous eyes, and indulging in a low cachinnation. 

She came in with a slight hesitation in her manner, a delightful 
expression of demureness, and an attempt to look firm. 

“Good evening, Mr. Harley!” she said, politely, trying not to 
smile. 

Harley came up to her, took her hand, looked into her face with 
a smile, and said ; 

“ Good evening, little sister I” 

As he uttered these words, he began to laugh, and Miss Annie, 
having the tables thus suddenly turned upon her, was overwhelmed 
with confusion, blushing like a peony. 

“ Don’t blush so, Annie !” said Harley, with his exquisite sweet- 
ness and cordiality, which seemed to caress the person to whom he 
spoke at certain moments ; “ you must not think me very informal, 

249 



250 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


or that I am laughing at you, or teasing you. I call you my little 
sister because I have just received your father’s consent to Sainty’s 
union with you, and hope he has had your consent first.” 

Annie was quite overwhelmed, and utterly speechless. 

“ Sainty is a lucky fellow indeed, my dear— you will let me call 
you that, as I’m an old gentlemen, and not a young one. I love 
Sainty more than I love anybody else in the world, and I am certain 
that he will be happy with his little wife I” 

The voice laughed ; the kind eyes were full ofisunshine. 

“ I embarrass you a little, I see,” he added, “ and will not con- 
tinue to do so. Everybody must be in your grandmother’s room, 
and as I am not intimate enough to go thither without an escort, 
suppose you take my arm and be my guide.” 

Annie was never more obliged in all her life to any human being. 
She was ready, as she afterwards said, to “ sink into the floor,” at 
the prospect of an indefinite continuation of the interview. And 
now he had not teased her any more ; he had come to her relief. 
With blushing cheeks Miss Annie Bland placed her small hand 
upon the offered arm, fixed her eyes intently upon the floor, a 
roguish expression contending in them with her embarrassment, 
and they went toward Mrs. Bland’s room. 

They reached the door, and Annie was about to turn the knob, 
when Harley said : 

“ I think I should knock. My sudden appearance might surprise 
somebody. 

“ Surprise somebody ? Oh, no I Who could be surprised ?” 

Harley knocked. 

“ Come in !” was heard. 

Harley opened the door, and entered behind Annie. He was 
about to bow. Suddenly he stopped short and stood motionless, 
rigid as a figure of stone. 

The Lady of the Snow was looking at him. 




CHAPTER LXII. 

FACE TO FACE. 

In spite of his natural powers of self-control, which long habit 
had strengthened, Harley turned extremely pale, and his eyes were 
fixed with a startled expression upon the lady. 

“ Look !” whispered Miss Clementina to Evelyn, who sat close to 
the wall at one side of the fireplace, and was somewhat in shadow. 

The young lady made no reply. Every particle of color had faded 
from her cheeks, and she was breathing heavily. 

“He recognizes her!” whispered Miss Clementina behind her 
fan: “listen!” 

Harley bowed low. He was as pale as before, but the startled 
expression had disappeared. 

As his tall figure rose erect again, fie saw Mrs. Bland looking at 
him with a kindly smile, and heard her say, 

“ How do you do, Mr. Harley ? lam very glad to see you. It 
has been a long time since you were here, has it not, my dear ? 
Excuse me, I am an old person now, and speak to everybody in the 
same way. Have you been well? I think you are a little pale. Ah ! 
you young people are not as ruddy as the old-time young men. 
There was your father— he was as fresh-looking as a rose, and his 
cheeks were as red as a girl’s. You have his portrait, I think, at 
Huntsdon, and I should really like to see it again. ^ It has been 
twenty years — yes ! twenty years, I really believe, since I visited 
Huntsdon ! But I am running on too much— excuse me, my dear- 
sit down !” 

Harley quietly sat down, murmuring some inarticulate words. 
He looked at Evelyn as he did so. She had turned away her head, 
and he could not see her face. The silence was becoming oppres- 
sive, when it was interrupted by Fanny, who, turning her face, 
framed in its bright curls, over her shoulder, said, smiling, 

“ I hope you came to see me, Mr. Harley ! I suppose Mr. St. Leger 
told you of my accident, and as you were always such a good friend 
of ours, I expected you would come to inquire about me.” 

“ I am very glad to find you are not seriously hurt, my child,” 
said Harley, commanding his voice with difficulty. 


251 




252 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Oh no ! It is nothing, and everybody has been so kind to me 
that I am almost glad I was hurt.” 

She looked aflectionately at the lady at her side. 

“ You would come, I knew, just as soon as you heard of it !” she 
said ; “ and to think !— you walked all the way in the snow, with 
your thin shoes ! — how good to me you are !” 

The Lady of the Snow made no reply. She seemed to have fallen 
into a sort of stupor. She had never once looked at Harley after 
the first frightened glance, which had been followed by a sudden 
catching of her breath, as though she were about to faint. She now 
sat, holding Fanny’s hand mechanically, her eyes fixed upon the 
bed, her color coming and going. 

“ Well, well !” said Mrs. Bland, who had made out a part of Fan- 
ny’s words, “we certainly ought to be good to you, my dear; you 
are like a little snow-drop — and you know the Bible says we some- 
times entertain angels unawares ! I think you are quite a little 
angel, Fanny ! Is she not, Mr. Harley ? So you know Fanny ? She 
and Mr. St. Leger are excellent friends — and this lady, who lives 
with her — she is devoted to her.” 

Miss Clementina had leaned back, and now, raising her fan so that 
it concealed her face, whispered to Evelyn, 

“ Look at him ! He is as white as a sheet ! — and look at her 

“ Yes,” murmured Evelyn, who seemed to be about to faint. 

“ What do you think now whispered the lady behind the fan, 
in spiteful triumph, “ Is this woman, or is she not, Mrs. Harley?” 

Evelyn made no reply. A deadly chill seemed to pass through 
her frame. She shook, and looked toward the poor Lady of the 
Snow and then at Harley, with a sick and scornful gaze, full of indig- 
nation and despair. 

“ Indeed,” continued good Mrs. Bland, in her sweet, silvery voice, 
as she went on knitting, “ I do not wonder that everybody loves 
you, Fanny, or that your friends should walk through the snow to 
see you! How did the news reach your famUy? Oh yes — your 
father ! Or was it you, Mr. Harley? You know dear Fanny, and 
no doubt know this lady too— do you not?” 

“ Listen ! listen !” whispered Miss Clementina. “Does he know 
her f See what he will say !” 

A dead silence followed Mrs. Bland’s words. 

“ Look at her 

Miss Clementina rose unconsciously, exclaiming, aloud, 

“ She is going to faint !” 

She hastened, as she spoke, toward the Lady of the Snow. But 
assistance came too late. The poor woman had let her head fall 
upon Fanny’s hand ; then her thin figure was seen to droop, and. 



THEN IIKJl THIN ElOrRE WAS SEEN TO DROOP. 




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JUSTIN HARLEY. 


253 


before any one could reach her, she fell sidewise, like a wounded 
bird, on the floor at Mrs. Bland’s feet. 

The overstrained nerves, too cruelly taxed, had yielded. Giving 
w’ay to what seemed overpowering agony, she had fainted. 

Miss Clementina rushed for a glass of water, and h was Evelyn 
Bland, who, forgetting her own agony, reached the sufierer flrst, and 
raised her in her arms. 

For an instant the two person^ remained motionless in that atti- 
tude, the poor, insensible Lq,dy of the Snow lying with her pale face 
on Evelyn’s bosom. 

Harley and St. Leger rose instinctively and went toward the door. 

As he went out, Harley turned his head, his eyes full of vague 
wonder. As he did so, he met the eyes of Evelyn Bland, and that 
look haunted him afterwards. It was full of scorn, indignation and 
wretchedness. One thought only was burning in the girl’s breast — 
This is his wife I” 



22 



AUGUSTA CHANDOS. 

The two friends mounted their horses, and set out slowly in the 
direction of Huntsdon. 

Harley’s face wore an expression of deep sadness, and he rode 
on for more than a mile without speaking. Then he raised his 
head, and turning toward St. Leger, said : 

“ My dear friend, the scene tjirough which we have just passed 
leads me to that avowal, in reference to my past life, w’hich I have 
so often promised you, but have never before had the courage to 
make. The time has come at last. I can no longer refrain from 
speaking, without leaving on your mind an impression which is not 
very flattering to me. •! do you the justice to believe that you 
would find it hard to think ill of me ; but there are limits even to 
friendship — appearances have their influence on the human mind, in 
spite of everything. I have shrunk from telling you my history 
heretofore, for the narrative will be a' painful one to me. I can no 
longer shrink. Do you wish to hear it?” 

The grave, sorrowful voice ceased. Harley rode on, looking with 
great sadness on the ground. 

“ Yes ! yes !” said St. Leger. “ Do I wish to hear it? I swear to 
you, Harley, there is nothing in all the world I so long to know.” 

“ Well, well ! you shall hear my history, if only to have valid 
grounds for continuing to think well of me.” 

“ I have never thought otherwise—never, so help me Heaven ! — 
never, Harley !” 

“ Thanks, friend ! That encourages me a little.” 

“ Take any encouragement from the statement that you desire, 
Harley. I am not one of those friends of the sunshine, who smile 
when the day is bright, and frown when it is overclouded. My 
motto is, ‘ Once a friend, always a friend.’ Tell me your life or not, 
just as you fancy. You will always be the old Justin Harley to 
me — neither more nor less.” 

“ Again, thanks. AVe understand each other. There is nothing, 
St. Leger, that I hate so much as mystery, and during our whole 
acquaintance I have been compelled to remain obstinately silent in 
254 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


255 


regard to my youth. I have seen you, on at least a hundred occa- 
sions, look the surprise, and curiosity too, which you were too well- 
bred to express, and just as often I have felt the strongest desire to 
tell you all about myself, and rid myself of this melo-dramatic, 
theatrical surrounding of mystery — mystery ! I say, again, there is 
nothing I so detest ! If there is any trait in my character stronger 
than all the rest, it is a passion for frankness and candor — to be 
open and above board in everything, with no concealments what- 
ever ; and yet my pride has withheld me from speaking frankly— 
has made me silent. I have conquered it now. The time has come— 
you shall know all, and you certainly deserve to know it. You have 
been admirably observant of all the rules of good society, and yet— 
shall I speak plainly ?” 

“ Without ceremony.” 

“ And yet you have been unable to rid your mind of suspicion. 
You have— /mred, let me say, that there was something discredita- 
ble in my past life ; and you think also, perhaps, that I have a wife 
now living — this poor woman !” 

“ I think nothing — I suspect nothing ! I believe in your honor as 
I believe in my own existence !” 

“ That is Harry St. Leger speaking ! But I rejoice that the time 
has come when I have found the courage to speak plainly — when 
the remorse for a fancied crime has wholly disappeared, and I am 
almost happy again.” 

Harley stopped a moment, seeming to recall his memories. He 
then went on — the horses still walking slowly. 

“ My story will not detain you very long. My father, Henry Har- 
ley, of Huntsdon, belonged to an old English family, and inherited 
from my grandfather a landed estate which gave him social promi- 
nence. He was also a very elegant person, and very fond of society — 
entertaining profusely at Huntsdon. He remained single until he 
had passed middle-age ; he then married a very beautiful person, a 
Mrs. Gontran, the widow of a French gentleman, said to be of noble 
family, who had died leaving an only son. Mrs. Gontran did not 
survive her second marriage more than a year or two. She died, 
and my father remained a widower, with no one but himself and 
young Gontran in the Huntsdon house, until nearly five years after- 
wards. He then married Miss Hartright, who also died in ten or 
twelve years, leaving two children — my younger brother St. George 
and myself. 

“ Well, I will pass as rapidly as possible over humdrum details, 
and come to those events of my life which possess greater interest. 
You will see that these events were tragic — but let me narrate, 
instead of indulging in comment. Young Gontran was, from child- 


256 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


hood, what is called a mauvais sujet in France, and in England a 
headstrong boy. He was not exactly bad, for he had many good 
qualities, being perfectly generous in money-matters, and even a 
strong friend where he conceived a liking. But he quarrelled with 
everybody, and was unscrupulous where his passions were con- 
cerned. He had very soon grown jealous, it seemed, of myself and 
my brother Sainty, and did not conceal his dislike of us. As he 
grew up, he conducted himself at Huntsdon— for what reason it is 
impossible to say— as eldest son and prospective heir ; although he 
had inherited an ample property from his mother, and was no 
favorite with my father, who looked upon him, indeed, with ill- 
concealed distaste. 

“ Still he was treated as a son, and I and my younger brother 
were accustomed to look upon him as a brother. He went to col- 
lege, and was compelled to leave the place in consequence of some 
discreditable affair. He returned; was upbraided by my father; 
retorted with insults, and, as he was now his own master, left Hunts- 
don, and took possession of his estates in another part of the pro- 
vince. 

“You may call that, if you will,” continued Harley, “ the first chap- 
ter in my autobiography — all the more as my father died almost 
immediately afterwards, and I found myself the head of the family 
and owner of Huntsdon. You know our law of primogeniture — 
it is an unjust law — it gave me the whole estate as eldest son, and I 
assumed my responsibilities. I was young to occupy such a sta- 
tion, — only nineteen ; but my guardian was pleased to say that I 
was old enough and had good judgment ; he therefore left me in 
virtual control of everything, and my younger brother was com- 
mitted to my guardianship. 

“ Soon afterwards, the romance — tragedy — call it what you will — 
of my life began. I made a journey to some distance. I will not 
stop to explain everything and enter into every detail. I was de- 
tained as the guest of a gentleman who had known my father well, 
and at the house of this gentleman made the acquaintance of a 
young lady — I may as well give you her name — Augusta Chandos, 
a beauty, and with the beauty I proceeded to fall in love. If I had 
time and the inclination, I would describe this young person — you 
would understand then how natural my infatuation was. I will 
only say — you have seen her to-night, and even that is unneces- 
sary — that she was very beautiful, had in every movement of her 
person, every tone of her voice, and every expression of her face, a 
subtle fascination ; she drew me from the first moment, and I re- 
turned to Huntsdon perfectly wild with love. I remember com- 
mitting a thousand extravagances — walking my chamber hour after 


JUSTIN HAELEY. 


257 


hour at night, thinking of her, riding at full gallop mile after mile 
through the woods and fields shouting aloud her name, carving her 
initials on trees in the grounds at Huntsdon. I was half demented 
with love of her. 

“ Well, a month after my return, I hastened back, and began to 
pay my addresses to the young lady in due form. Tiiere seemed 
no good reason why we should not make a match, as the phrase is, 
always provided I could procure the consent of the young lady. 
She was an orphan, like myself— poor, almost alone in the world, 
with no one to direct her action but an old guardian, who seemed 
very fond of me — and as I was the possessor of a large estate, no 
worldly obstacle stood in the way of our union. All that was want- 
ing was the young lady’s consent, and this obstacle was soon over- 
come. I paid my addresses with ardor, offered my hand, and was 
accepted. 

“ You may call that, if you choose, chapter second in my biogra- 
phy !” said Harley. The words were uttered with the slightest 
possible bitterness; but this expression quickly disappeared, and 
Harley went on in the same calm, almost gentle tone which he had 
used from the beginning of his narrative. 





22 * 



CHAPTER LXIV. 

AN EXPERIENCE. 

■ “I came back to Huntsdon,” continued Harley, “ with the convic- 
tion that no man. as happy as myself had ever before breathed the 
Vireath of life. Love is, after all, the supreme joy of existence. 
What is like it? We do not live, I think, before we love. 

“ I am moralizing, you see, St. Leger ; the truth is, I am trying to 
delay my statement of the events which followed my betrothal to 
Miss Chandos. The marriage was to take place in six months. 
I was to return twice in every month. The distance was consider- 
able, and proper attention to my affairs would not permit me to 
visit the young lady more frequently. I acquiesced rather unwill- 
ingly in so unnatural an arrangement, summoned all my resolution 
to my aid, and stayed away the entire first fortnight nearly. Hour 
after hour, however, fourteen days after leaving the young lady, I 
was with her again, at the house of her old guardian. 

“ When I entered the room, I saw that the young lady had a 
visitor. His back was turned to me, but he looked toward the door 
as I came in, and I recognized Gontran. 

“ I afterwards ascertained that he had made her acquaintance in 
a very simple manner. A bachelor friend of his in the neighbor- 
hood had taken the fancy to marry, had known Gontran at college, 
and, casting about him for groomsmen, had called upon Gontran ; 
he had complied with the request, came, was assigned as grooms- 
man to Miss Chandos, — a friend of the bride — hence their acquaint- 
ance. . / 

“ When I came into the room, Gontran looked at me in a manner 
which I did not exactly like, but I was much too happy to resent 
imaginary insults, and held out my hand. To my surprise, he did 
not take it, pretending not to see it. I think I must have greeted 
this proceeding with some hauteur. I was a very proud person in 
those days, and offered no further courtesies, except to say in a stiff 
way that I hoped Mr. Gontran was well. To this speech he replied 
in a negligent manner that he was perfectly well ; and then he w*ent 
on conversing with the young lady, who, to my great astonishment, 
bestowed upon him, even in my presence, evidences of the greatest 
enjoyment of his society. 

268 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


259 


“ Gontran stayed all day, scarcely taking the least notice of me. 
He was several years older tlian myself, had ,the air of considering 
this difference of age greater than it was, and, in a word, treated me 
as a grown man treats a boy — with a manner indicating a conscious- 
ness of superiority, almost of authority. 

“ This, I confess, made me a little angry. Once or twice I nearly 
made up my mind to take him aside, and ask him if he intended 
his manner to be offensive to me, but he gave me no opportunity, 
remained at the young lady’s side all day, and then took his depar- 
ture, laughing in his disagreeable way, and not so much as looking 
at me. You see, my dear St. Leger, I am going steadily through all 
the details of what is an old, commonplace, worn-out story, such as 
the romance-writers, when they aim to describe human life, natu- 
rally invent and put in their books. I was in love with a young 
lady, and engaged to be married to her, and at this interesting 
moment lover number 2 appears, turns his back on myself, (lover 
number 1,) diverts the young lady’s attention from myself, amuses 
her, flatters her, looks tenderly at her, and goes away, leaving me 
in a pet— not to say angry. 

“ I ended by becoming angry, and this had the result which any 
one experienced in feminine human nature might have predicted. 

‘ It was very hard,’ my young lady friend said, pouting, ‘ that she 
was not to look at any other gentleman. Was I an ogre? Would 
I eat her when we were married ? Mr. Gontran had certainly done 
nothing at which I had the right to take offence.’ And tears fol- 
lowed the pouting ; pathos succeeded indignation — a tender scene, 
abject apologies from myself for my unreasonable and absurd dis- 
satisfaction with the proceedings of such an angel— and so sunshine 
blotted out the black clouds, and summer weather came back. 
When, after my visit of two days, during which Gontran did not 
again make his appearance, I set out to return to Huntsdon, my 
mind was perfectly at ease, and I had not a doubt, a fear, or even 
any feeling of disquiet. 

“I went again at the end of the month, and was received with 
the fondest affection. Gontran was not visible ; and it was only by 
accident that I heard from an old negro groom, my personal friend, 
as he rubbed down my horse one morning, that^Mr. Gontran had 
been twice to see the young lady during my absence. This, I con- 
fess, was far from agreeable intelligence, and my first impulse was 
to go and ask the lady if she had received visits from Mr. Gon- 
tran, and if so, why she had not mentioned the fact. I felt, how- 
ever, that I was angry, might use some expression or indicate some 
suspicion which would not please my lady friend, and I refrained. 
It was only when I was about to leave her again, and she seemed 


260 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


to have no feeling but one of the saddest regret at my going, that I 
asked her, with a forced smile, why she had not spoken of Mr. Gon- 
tran’s visits. She colored deeply, and her voice altered, as she re- 
plied : ‘ Mr. Gontran? His visits? She had quite forgotten them. 
Yes, he certainly had been to see her. Several other gentlemen 
had called. Had she mentioned themf Well, it was possible that 
she had done so, omitting Mr. Gontran’s among the number. Of 
course, it was the merest accident. What did I mean? Was I jeal- 
ous of Mr. Gontran ?’ 

“A light laugh accompanied the question. She added that I was 
‘a goose — the very biggest goose she had ever known. I really 
must learn to be less suspicious. There was nothing that alienated 
love like jealousy,’ with which consolation, and the sound of her 
light laugh in my ears, I rode away. 

“My dear St. Leger,” Harley went on, after stopping a moment, 
“ do you think that I derive any pleasure from telling you this story, 
from venting my spite on women, and indulging my bitterness? 
I assure you, if you think that, you are mistaken. Instead of 
taking pleasure in my narrative, I shrink from it. I prove that to 
you by abridging it as far as I can. I have aimed so far to show 
you how the connection between Gontran and the young lady 
began, continued, and gradually assumed a more serious character. 
When a lady conceals from her affianced lover the visits of another 
person, there is something more than the simple visits that she con- 
ceals. Is it necessary to say that ? Concealment of anything is a 
wrong to love, for suspicion follows ; and suspicion of one you love 
has in it the bitterness of death. 

“ Instead of prosing on, and giving you every detail, I shall pro- 
ceed to the result, and that as rapidly as possible. The visits of 
Gontran continued, as I ascertained, but always in my absence ; and 
when the young lady paid a visit to a friend in the neighborhood, 
he was with her every day, and all day, as I was duly informed by 
one of those excellent people living in all communities, who see, 
hear, and report whatever causes pain. I had a more disagreeable 
scene than the first with the young lady, which resulted in an open 
quarrel, nearly ; but a flood of tears followed, then protestations of 
devotion. All was forgotten. She trembled a little, and did not 
seem able to meet my eye ; but she fixed the day for our marriage. 

“ I was punctual, I need scarcely tell you. My poor horse must 
have wondered on that journey why he was so punished with the 
spur. I arrived, and my friend (the old guardian) met me at the 
door, and informed me that Miss Chandos had on that morning 
eloped with Gontran !” 



CHAPTER LXV. 

THE END OF A LOVE AFFAIR. 

During the latter part of this narrative, Harley had exhibited a 
certain degree of emotion. He had spoken at first with the calm- 
ness of a man narrating events in which he has had no personal 
concern ; but his tone had changed, the speaker had become moved, 
and unconsciously had pushed his horse to a trot, then to a gallop. 
They now went on at this pace — resembling two phantoms. Soon 
Huntsdon came in sight — a great hill, rising dim in the night. 

“ There is a room in the Huntsdon house,” said Harley, “which 
witnessed the strange and tragic incident with which my history 
will terminate, St. Leger. Let us go there.” 

They were at the door as he spoke, and, giving their horses to the 
groom — who promptly appeared — went in. Old James was waiting 
for his master, who said : 

“ I wish you to kindle a fire at once in the pink room, James.” 

The old servant stared. 

“ In the pink room, did you say. Mas’ Justin ?” 

“ Yes, James. I understand your look ; but the time has come to 
re-open the pink room.” 

The old servant seemed to be in a maze, but speedily obeyed — fol- 
lowing his master almost immediately with materials for a fire, and 
the fire in an iron carrier. 

Harley turned into a passage leading to the left wing, and opened 
the second door he came to with a key which he took from the 
ledge above it. It was an apartment of considerable size, furnished 
as a chamber, with a brown carpet, a large, ornamental bedstead, a 
centre-table and elegant adjuncts of comfort — the entire woodwork 
painted of a pink color. In ten minutes a cheerful fire was blazing 
in the wide fireplace. The blaze seemed strange. All about this 
room indicated that it had not been inhabited for many years. 

Harley drew a seat for St. Leger toward the fire, and sat down in 
one opposite. Old James had retired in silence. 

*“ This is what we call the pink-room, my dear St. Leger,” Harley 
said. “ It has not been opened before during the whole of our visit ; 
and it is possible that the fact may have occasioned you some sur- 
prise.” 


261 



262 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ 1 did not observe it — the house is so large.” 

“ Quite large, but this is one of the best rooms in it.” 

“ The cornice and walls are certainly very elegant.” 

“ And yet it has not been used for a great many years. There is 
also another chamber — the one adjoining this — which has also been 
shut up.” 

“ Ah?” 

“ More mysteries you see, my dear friend — nothing but mystery, 
mystery! — for people do not close the best apartments in their 
houses from wanton caprice. Well, these two rooms are connected 
with one of the most painful events in my life ; and not desiring to 
have the scene in question brought continually to my mind, I deter- 
mined to shut up both, and use other parts of the house.” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ I see you are interested,” said Harley, “ from the animation of 
your tone. I shall therefore proceed to relate what took place in 
this apartment. I have come to the end of that part of my life 
which I may describe as the love-making period, and I leave it 
without regret ; for whatever people may say, however little blame 
in a moral point of view may attach to a man who has been de- 
ceived, the attitude he occupies in his own eyes is mortifying to his 
pride,' and the narrative of his misfortunes must be painful. It has 
been impossible for me to avoid giving you an account of these 
events, but I have tried, at least, to sum up the melancholy experi- 
ence of my early life in as few words as possible. I shall continue 
to do so, and will strive not to indulge any feeling of bitterness. 
You may see from my voice that I have none.” 

In truth, Harley’s tone was not only calm, but gentle. A quiet 
sadness spoke in his voice : there was no trace either of anger or 
indignation. 

“ I will pass briefly,” he continued, “ over the time succeeding my 
great misfortune. I could ascertain from Miss Chandos’ guardian 
nothing which explained the terrible step which she had taken. 
He burst forth into violent denunciations — charges of treachery, 
heartless deceit, lies, falsehood from beginning to end — and I con- 
fess I did not take her part or defend her. But I was not thinking 
of her. I was thinking of Gontran, whom I resolved to put to death 
if I could find him. I tried to do so, and failed. I am glad I did 
not meet him : it was better for him and myself too, perhaps, that 
he could not be found. I afterwards ascertained that, fearing no 
doubt some violent scene would ensue, he hurried through his mar- 
riage with Miss Chandos, went to a northern port, and soon after- 
'W'ards sailed for Europe ; probably for France, where members of 
his family were living. I traced him afterwards, by chance rumors. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


2G3 


back to Virginia, whither he returned, probably, from disorder in 
his financial afiairs, to dispose of his property. 

“ And now, my dear St. Leger, before coming to the last incident 
in this tragedy, I ought, I suppose, to supply some theory account- 
ing for this young lady’s cruel treatment of me. I am spared that 
trouble. The paper which I came into possession of so strangely, 
on that night when I met the strollers, has told me everything. 
I cannot show you that ; I cannot even show you the letter which I 
received recently from Gontran. They explain everything. Alas ! 
we are too prone to measure human nature by a foot-rule and com- 
passes. It will not adndit of any such mathematical estimate. You 
may assert, without fear of contradiction, that twice two are four, 
and that twelve inches make a foot, but how can you measure hu- 
man motives and define them? Our actions in this world proceed 
from strangely-jumbled motives and influences; from weakness, 
impatience with our surroundings, the tedium of daily life often ; 
as frequently from caprice, perversity, and the fatal domination of 
stronger will, pressing hard when the good genius is asleep or absent. 
At such moments women, especially, take steps which they wonder 
at afterwards — marry persons whom they never dreamed of marry- 
ing — a weak hour decides a whole life. But to come back from these 
generalities to the actual instance. Gontran was rich, plausible, 
persevering, and a man of fine person. He induced this poor girl 
to become his wife, and she was the first to discover what a fatal 
error she had committed. 

“ I speak without bitterness, you see, — again and again I call your 
attention to that fact. How could I indulge rancor toward one who 
was deceived, doubtless ; who repented, every hour of her life, the 
step she had taken, and never ceased to regret her treatment of me? 
Well, a last word in reference to Gontran. Nothing remains hidden 
in this world, and his subsequent career is now known to me. He 
seems to have labored under a sort of curse. He became a reckless 
card-player ; gradually drifted into the worst company ; grew intem- 
perate in drink ; and finding himself, step by step, approaching the 
brink of misery, .began to threaten, and possibly otherwise ill-treat 
his wife. They had one child. You know who that child is, and 
will soon be told how she came to be an inmate of Puccoon’s hut ; 
and love for this child was the sole sentiment which struggled with 
the evil spirit in Gontran’s breast. The end soon came. One day 
husband and wife had a bitter altercation. She enraged him, per- 
haps, and he turned upon her like a tiger ; raised his arm ; threat- 
ened to kill her; nay, even indeed, in the height of his rage, had 
announced his intent to do so ; and, overcome by nervous fear, she 


264 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


fled from him, taking refuge with a party of strolling-players, whom 
she met on the common highway ! 

“ That is a sad story — is it not, friend ? Not a cheerful comedy, 
with which one wiles away an idle hour I It is terrible — this pic- 
ture of a husband threatening the "woman whom he has vowed 
before God to love and cherish — this mother, abandoning her 


child I” 




CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE BURGLARY. 

“ To come back to myself,” continued Harley. “ Such had been 
the unfortunate termination of all my romantic dreams. 

“ I could not find Gontran, and having thus nobody to wreak my 
spite upon, I returned to Huntsdon, and proceeded to mope. It is 
a poor occupation, whether indulged in by high or low. I would 
rather be a ploughman, working cheerfully all day, and sleeping 
soundly all night, than a duke with a dozen castles, who moped, 
I became sour, misanthrophic, and never lost an occasion to indulge 
in sneers at men and women — especially at the latter. This was 
certainly not amiable, but there was some excuse for it, I think. 
I had had an unfortunate experience, had been tricked and super- 
seded by the man with whom I had been brought up as a brother, 
and treated with contempt by the woman I had loved. So I lived 
here in this large, lonely house, with no one but my young brother, 
gloomy, miserable, disenchanted, and old before my time. I never 
visited any one, and paid no attention to my affairs ; the estate was 
managed by my father’s old and faithful overseer, Saunders, else it 
would have gone to ruin. I was going through one of those epochs 
in a man’s life which harden and sour him — taking from him all 
the joys of life. I should, nevertheless, have returned, I think, to 
a more healthy state of mind. Three or four years had passed, and 
I was becoming far more cheerful, when an incident occurred which 
made me, until within the last two or three days, one of the most 
melancholy of human beings. 

“ This incident I will now proceed to relate in a few words. 

“ I had retired one night, and had slept for an hour or two. My 
chamber was the one next to this, my younger brother sleeping up- 
stairs. Well, I became aware, during my sleep, of a noise at one of 
the windows of the apartment we are now in — a slight, grating 
noise, which could be produced by nothing but a burglar’s file. In 
an instant I was awake, and had all my senses about me. The 
night was stormy, and I could hear the distant muttering of thun- 
der through the closed shutters of my chamber, I could see from 
moment to moment the vague glare of lightning. 

23 


265 



266 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“At first I thought I must be dreaming — an idea which is apt to 
occur to the mind of any one suddenly roused from sleep by an-un-r 
expected occurrence. But there was no doubt about the noise. 
There it was — low, continuous, muffled ; a file was biting at the old- 
fashioned bolt holding down the window; some one was aiming to 
gain access to the apartment. 

“ All at once I remembered that I had on that day received five 
hundred pounds sterling for a portion of my tobacco ; it had been 
locked up in the drawer of the old secretary yonder, where I kept 
my valuables ; the burglar must have this money in view, and in 
my sour and bitter mood, I resolved to make the intruder rue his 
attempt. 

“ I went to the mantelpiece where I kept a pistol loaded, stole 
into the passage, opened the door of this room, and reached it just 
as the bolt fell in two, and the window yonder by the bed was 
slowly and cautiously raised. 

“ The burglar was on the sill when I fired. As I did so, a brilliant 
flash of lightning lit up the room. My bullet had struck the man 
in the breast, and as he fell back with a cry, putting his hand to the 
bloody spot, I recognized Gontran. 

“ I stood for a moment quite horrified at my act. I had not re- 
alized that death must follow my shot, at a human being within 
only a few feet of my pistol’s muzzle, and the thought of Gontran 
had never crossed my mind. I was utterly shocked, and would 
have gone instantly to his succor, but I heard hasty, staggering 
steps, then a man groaning and dragging himself up on horseback, 
and then the quick hoof-strokes of the horse as he carried his 
wounded rider ofiT. In a few minutes the noise had ceased, and I 
looked round me with the air of a man walking in his sleep. I then 
proceeded to strike a light and examine the window ; the bolt was 
sawn in two, and the sash was raised. I shut it down, went back 
to my chamber, and remained until daybreak in a chair, musing, 
suffering remorse. 

“Something told me that I had mortally wounded Gontran, 
and on the next day his fate seemed to be ascertained. His horse 
was found riderless on the other side of the Blackwater, which was 
greatly swollen near the ford, in the vicinity of Puccoon’s cabin. 
The wounded man must have attempted to cross, I concluded, was 
swept from the saddle, and had been drowned. Thus, whether my 
bullet had inflicted a mortal wound, or only weakened him by loss 
of blood, so that he could not keep his seat in the saddle, I was re- 
sponsible for his death, and horror seized upon me. My remorse 
became even greater than before. I will explain what I mean. 
There were some old and valuable jewels which had been the pro- 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


267 


perty of Mrs. Gontran when she was married to my father ; she 
made no disposition of them at her death, and they had been pre- 
sented by my father to my mother, when he was again married, 
and left by my mother to my younger brother, St. George. Well, 
about these jewels there had been some bitter blood on Gontran’s 
part. My father had declined to surrender them to him, and I in 
my turn did likewise. I locked them up, keeping them securely for 
my brother. 

* “ Well, what heightened my remorse at having caused, as I sup- 

posed, the death of the man I had looked upon in my childhood as 
my brother, was the sudden discovery of the fact that he had not 
intended, in entering the house, to rob me of my five hundred 
pounds sterling, but to obtain possession of property which he be- 
lieved to be, of right, his own — namely, his mother’s jewels. He 
had written a statement to that effect, to leave behind him. He 
dropped it in his flight. I found it on the next morning, just after 
discovering, as I supposed, that he was drowned, and from that in- 
stant, my dear St. Leger, up to the day when I found a paper left by 
my uncle George for me, I never enjoyed a moment’s happiness or 
peace of mind. I regarded myself as a murderer. I had killed the 
son of my father’s wife, and the provocation to this killing was not 
burglary, the attempt to rob, but the simple desire to obtain posses- 
sion of what he believed to be his rightful property.” 




CHAPTER LXVII. 

HARLEY ENDS HIS NARRATIVE, 

“ Let me pass over this gloomy and really terrible epoch in my 
life as rapidly as possible,” continued Harley. “ I became nervous, 
fearful ; the least noise unmanned me. My dear St. Leger, listen to 
the words of a man who has suffered the agonies of Remorse. 
Clothe yourself in rags, become a day-laborer, eat dry bread, sleep 
in a hovel — live the life of the poorest and meanest of the human 
species — rather than sleep in a palace, wear silk and velvet, have 
all men take off their hats to you, and have that vulture called 
Remorse gnawing at your vitals ! 

“ I could see the face of Gontran day and night — pale, bloody and 
reproachful. I did not sleep without a light in my chamber, for 
fear some friend, perhaps — some one I loved — my own brother, 
perchance — might in jest — in some manner — repeat Gontran’s at- 
tempt. 

“ Well, this wasted me away ; the phantom followed me, and I 
left Virginia and went to Europe, taking my brother with me and 
placing him at school in England. I wandered all over Europe, 
restless, unhappy — the man you knew me. I was recalled at last by 
a letter from my uncle George Hartright, the only person to whom 
I had confided my wretched secret — the sole living human being of 
whose affection I felt sure, for he had always loved me. The letter 
of my uncle was as singular as he himself was eccentric. He wrote 
that he had something of great importance to tell me — something 
which I would give all I possessed in the world to know — and I must 
meet him at the Raleigh tavern, in Williamsburg, on a night which 
he fixed, when he would inform me what this something was. Well, 
as soon as I received the letter I set out from Vienna, and reached 
Williamsburg on the appointed night. My uncle had died on that 
morning.” 

“ Singular!” said St. Leger. 

“ Yes, and his last words were equally strange. He commissioned 
my uncle Colonel Hartright to meet me, and say that ‘ In the Black- 

water Swamp ’ There he stopped. These were his last words, 

and they filled me with perplexity. I could only conclude that my 
uncle had taken the fanciful idea that by draining the swamp — 
268 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


269 


which you know covers a large tract — I should become wealthy, 
and in this conviction I continued until the other day when — but I 
shall speak of that in a moment. 

“ Observe,’* continued Harley, “ that nothing had occurred up to 
this moment to relieve my mind in any measure of the gloom re- 
sulting from my conviction that I had cuused the death of Gontran. 
You found me in Virginia as melancholy as when we parted in 
Europe ; and the singular meeting with — her — Augusta Chandos, as 
I will still call her, on our return from Williamsburg that night, 
certainly did not enliven me. I had supposed that she was dead — 
a report to that effect had reached me from some quarter — and this 
meeting with her, in so unexpected a manner, in the midst of such 
surroundings, startled and unnerved me. I attempted soon after- 
wards to find her, with the view of removing her from her low sur- 
roundings, for which I was utterly unable to account; but the 
strollers had disappeared, and I gave up the attempt — diverted from 
it by an incident which for the moment made me forget everything 
else. My uncle had died, holding in his hand a small key. This 
was taken possession of, but afterwards dropped by, Colonel Hart- 
right at the Raleigh tavern, when he came thither to keep my uncle 
George’s appointment with myself. The key was found and deliv- 
ered to me, you will remember, to be conveyed to Colonel Hart- 
right.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He deceived and acknowledged it, but thought little of it. He 
tried it in all the locks at Oakhill without success— lastly in a com- 
mon silver-closet in the wall. This closet it opened, and a paper 
was found addressed to me, which told me everything.” 

“ Your uncle George’s secret?” 

“Yes; he had prepared this paper incase of accidents. It in- 
formed me — to be brief— that Gontran was not dead : that he, my 
uncle George, had, in riding out, attempted a short cut through the 
Blackwater Swamp one day, to reach Oakhill before a storm, and 
that, having lost his way, and penetrated the depths of the swamp, 
he had distinctly seen and recognized Gontran, as he entered a sort 
of den which was plainly his habitation. My uncle stated that 
Gontran did not seem to be aware of his presence. He made his 
way out, and, knowing what a burden of gloom and remorse the 
intelligence would remove from my mind, wrote at once, and sum- 
moned me back to hear this something connected with the Black- 
water Swamp, which I would give all I possessed in the world to 
know. 

“ He was not wrong. I would cheerfully have beggared myself 
to know that Gontran was alive, and the intelligence was the sweet- 

23 * 


270 


JUSTIN HARLEY 


est music to my ears. Well, I had no sooner read my uncle’s com- 
munication than I determined to go and ascertain if there could be 
any mistake. It was possible that he had been deceived by some 
resemblance. He might have taken some poacher or vagrant for 
Gontran, and all my new-found joy might be turned to gloom again. 
My uncle had made the search comparatively easy. He had de- 
scribed the spot where he had seen Gontran. It was on a small 
island in an outlet of the waters of the swamp. I determined to go 
to the spot that very night, see Gontran — if the ‘ Man of the 
Swamp’ (as our friend Puccoon calls him) were really Gontran — 
and do something, if possible, to relieve his outlawed condition, and 
rescue his wife from her low associates. I had fully determined 
to find her, if I had to devote my life to the search ; and as the 
only means of making her future safe, to procure a divorce from 
Gontran. 

“ Well, I set out from Huntsdon about midnight — I could not rest 
nor defer my visit until morning, so great was my anxiety to ascer- 
tain if my uncle had or had not been mistaken — and made my way, 
with great difficulty, to the spot which was described in my uncle’s 
statement. I entered the den — a hovel under ground. A fire was 
burning, and I recognized Gontran — Gontran in flesh and blood !” 

“ A singular meeting !” 

“Was it not?” 

“ Amicable ?” 

“ Not altogether. I will tell you about it at another time. Well, 
I heard, in the first place, the explanation of his escape on the 
night of the attempted robbery. He had been carried off by his 
horse, and reached the ford in the Blackwater. In crossing he was 
swept from his seat, borne down by the current, and cast ashore at 
some distance below. When he regained consciousness, he was 
lying on the margin of the stream very much exhausted, but ma- 
naged to drag himself to higher ground, and bind up the wound in 
his breast, which was not mortal, as he feared, although dangerous. 
He made his way afterwards, with much difficulty, to the cabin of 
some persons of humble class living lower down the stream,. stated 
that he had shot himself while hunting, was hospitably cared for 
by these poor people, and recovered. Having no other resource, 
he then took refuge in the depths of this strange swamp, where I 
found him supporting himself by hunting.” 

As Harley came to this part of the narrative, St. Leger’s face had 
begun to glow. 

“ But !” he began. 

“A moment,” Harley said. “ I understand— you are thinking of 
Fanny. I am coming to that. Gontran told me nothing on that 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


271 


point at the time. Let me finish my account of the interview in 
the swamp.” 

St. Leger leaned back, resigned himself, and listened. 

“I had three distinct objects,” continued Harley, “in visiting 
Gontran in his den. The first was to convince myself that it was 
really Gontran ; the second to restore to him the jewels of which he 
had attempted to rob me; and the last object was to effect, if possi- 
ble, a legal separation between himself and his wife, whom I sup- 
posed I would be able to discover. You will easily understand my 
motive for this. I sincerely desired the poor woman’s happiness, 
and the first step toward effecting it was to remove her from the 
control of a man who had threatened her life. Well, having found 
that the man was actually Gontran, I delivered to him the jewels 
which I had taken with me, and then made him a plain business 
offer of five hundred pounds sterling if he would agree to a divorce, 
or what amounted to the same thing — aflBx his signature to an 
acknowledgment that he had treated her with cruelty, threatening 
her life, and would not oppose the proceedings for divorce. Strange 
to say, he exhibited the utmost repugnance to this, and at first posi- 
tively refused. I thereupon informed him that by so refusing he 
was making me his enemy. I was the owner of the swamp in which 
he had taken refuge. I would seize him as a vagrant and poacher. 
The threat had a remarkable effect. I did not know why at the 
time, but know now — that would have separated him from Fanny. 
In brief, he consented, and agreed to meet me at Huntsdon — you 
remember the night when we returned through the snow storm — 
and perfect the arrangement. I then left him, and set to work to 
do my own part. First I tried to find the poor woman. Thinking 
that she had sought refuge with her former guardian, I rode thither, 
but she had not been seen. Returning on the day of my appoint- 
ment with Gontran, I went to consult Judge Bland, you will re- 
member, on the law of divorce, and hurried back to keep my ap- 
pointment with Gontran. He did not come, and when I went to 
look for him in the swamp, I found that he had disappeared. It 
was only when I visited his den again, on hearing from you that 
he had been seen once more, that I found a note there, in which he 
refused to agree to the divorce, refused the five hundred nbunds, 
and stated his intention of leaving the country.” 

« But !” 

“Ah!” said Harley, with a sad smile, “I had forgotten that. 
All this does not explain how Fanny became an inmate of 
Puccoon’s hut, you would say. The letter received from Gontran 
through the post explains that. The story need not be a long one. 
When he came to seize his mother’s jewels that night at Hunts- 


272 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


don — let me not use the word roh — he was ruined, and designed 
making his way with his child to France. He came to the neigli- 
borhood on horseback, carrying the child — then very small — in his 
arms, tenderly wrapped in a cloak. What to do with her during 
the time consumed in the abstraction of the jewels was the puzzle ; 
but a means all at once presented itself. He came at nightfall in 
sight of Puccoon’s cabin, and rode up to it, designing to invent some 
plausible story, and leave the child there until his return. The 
cabin was unoccupied, however, and he took a sudden resolution. 
He would not be absent more than an hour or two ; the child would 
be safe from harm; he placed the little one — who had fallen asleep — 
in front of the fire, and rode rapidly toward Huntsdon. Then the 
burglary followed ; he was wounded, his horse carried him oflT, his 
head turning, his frame powerless from loss of blood, he could not 
check the animal, and was washed away by the waves of the Black- 
water. When he recovered, he stole back, saw Puccoon sitting at 
the door of his cabin, dandling the child, and realizing how much 
better off his little Fanny, whom he loved passionately, would be 
with the trapper than with himself, made no efibrt to regain pos- 
session of her, contenting himself with the knowledge that she was 
tenderly cared for. 

St. Leger listened to these words with evident emotion. 

“After all, Harley,” he said, “this man has noble, or at least 
loving, instincts.” 

“Assuredly. For the rest, he comes of one of the oldest and best 
families in France.” 

“And I am a believer in blood /” said the inconsistent St. Leger. 

“ It tells in animals — why not in men ?” replied Harley. “ But you 
do not know all, friend. Gontran is more than a plain gentleman.” 

“ More?” 

“ He is the Corhte de Gontran, the head of his family, and repre- 
sentative of the name.” 

“ The Comte de Gontran !” 

“ By the death of the late Count. He communicated the fact in 
his note, having discovered it through a letter addressed to him at 
his former place of residence.” 

“ So Fanny !” 

“ Is the daughter of M. le Comte de Gontran ; and as soon as her 
father made the discovery, he resolved to take her to France, which 
her accident alone frustrated. He came, found that she was gone, 
and ascertained in some manner what was unknown to me even, 
that the mysterious inmate of Puccoon’s cabin was his wife. 

“ The poor, dear girl — let me call her such ; it is a kindly term — 
had abandoned the strollers, overcome with shame on seeing me 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


273 


that night, had made her way toward Huntsdon — receiving charity 
from poor person^ like herself— with the design of appealing to me 
to discover her child, had “ haunted,” as you said, the grounds here, 
and on that very night when we returned through the snow-storm, 
tottered away into the darkness, fell from exhaustion, and was saved 
from death by the excellent Puccoon. The rest you know — how 
she came to love her own child without knowing that she was her 
child, how she is safe at last with a husband who is changed by 
suffering, and loves her, who will soon offer her a position in life 
such as she fell from when she married him. 

“ Poor, suffering creature ! God, the all-merciful, the all-seeing, 
can read my heart, and see that I have long ago forgiven her — that 
I can say, ‘Forget the past ; do not let it trouble you. I have for- 
gotten and forgiven it !’ ” 

St. Leger stretched out his hand and grasped Harley’s. 

“ I will not say you are the man I thought you were ! You are 
the man I knew you were !” 

“ Thanks, friend. Praise from you is grateful to me. Now I am 
weary, and a little agitated by the emotion I have felt at meeting 
with this poor girl. Let us retire.” 




CHAPTER LXVIII. 

“ TO THE LADY WHO FAINTED.” 

It was a little past midnight when the friends separated, and 
Harley retired to his chamber, but not to rest. An utter depression 
seemed to have taken possession of him ; whether resulting from 
the exciting emotions of the day or that long narrative of his past 
life, he could not determine : but there it was — a sombre shadow, 
as it were, obscuring his present and his future. 

Walking to and fro in his chamber, he passed in rapid review all 
the singular events and scenes which had occurred since his return 
to Virginia, and then his thoughts concentrated upon one absorbing 
point — the change which had taken place in the woman whom he 
had begun to love with such passionate tenderness. That change 
was so plain that it was idle to attempt to conceal it from himself. 
The first instinctive sentiment of joy at finding that she was not 
the object of his brother’s love had quite disappeared. Why had 
he permitted himself to derive any cheerfulness from that dis* 
covery? It was plain that she regarded /iim with indifference, if 
not with positive dislike, now. True he had thought that day when 
they rode together, and on that night when they walked side by 
side in the dreamy moonlight, that he had begun to touch her heart 
with a feeling more tender than friendship ; but the cloud had soon 
blotted out the sunlight. He had been received when he came 
back, and found her in the Blandfield grounds that evening, with 
actual coldness. She had been chill, distraite, and simply polite — 
another person. Had she suddenly grown conscious that he was 
becoming her suitor, and finding herself indifferent to him, meant 
to say, by her repellant manner, “ Do not love me ; I can never love 
you in return?” Women acted thus sometimes — aiming to discour- 
age men in advance, and to say with the eyes, and the tones of the 
voice, what they could not say with the lips ! 

And then that meeting on the night before, when she had scarcely 
looked at him or seemed aware of his presence, until the lady in 
black fainted. Then that look ! — that actual scorn ! — what did it 
mean? 

Suddenly Harley’s face fiushed,^and he muttered, 

274 





JUSTIN HARLEY. 


275 


“ She would not insult me so, in her thought even !” 

He had all at once penetrated — or thought he had penetrated — 
the secret. Some words let fall by St. Leger came back to him. 
Did Evelyn think that the lady in black was his ivife, and that he 
had concealed that fact while paying his addresses to herself? The 
proud man shrunk with indignation from the idea. But it con- 
stantly recurred to him, stinging him. Then she conceived that he 
was capable of this dishonor ! She had so poor an opinion of him ! 
He, Justin Harley, had sunk so low in her estimation as that 1 

“ Well, well!” he muttered, wearily, “ ‘ patience and shuffle the 
cards !’ That dream is over. I’ll not go yonder again to be insulted 
by a girl ! I’ll never utter one word to undeceive her. The trans- 
fer of Huntsdon to Sainty shall be made. I’ll rid her of my presence 
— go back to Europe with St. Leger, and forget !” 

Piteous self-scorn succeeded. 

“ What a tragi-comic personage I am I” he muttered. “ I revel in 
heroics 1 I make a fool of myself about a girl — again! — and become 
a majestic exile I” 

His head sunk and he sighed. 

“ But it is best ; there’s no place for me here in this maze. I am 
a savage ; I will break out of the net, and go back to my wandering 
and hunting. Fatigue brings forgetfulness.” 

He sat down and looked at his fire, which was dying out. As he 
mused, his face softened, and something of its old patience and 
gentleness came back. He was thinking of the scene .on the pre- 
ceding evening at ;Blandfield, and not now of Evelyn at all. He 
recalled the poor, wan cheeks of the woman he had once loved ; 
and the noble and sympathetic nature of the man, tried by so many 
and such various emotions, melted to pity, as he mused. How 
white she was! How thin her worn figure! How eager, craving, 

helpless, her shrinking glances! Had the sacred 

mother’s love thus changed her? Had she made the discovery that 

the child she had learned to love so was her own ? 

He uttered a low sigh. Something like a mist passed before his 
eyes. He saw again — and an overpowering pity and tenderness 
came with the vision — the poor, white face, and the thin figure, as 
it wavered, and fell fainting at his feet 

He remained thinking thus for a long time. After a while, his 
fire began to die out entirely, and he shivered, and rose. 

“ That must be attended to,” he muttered ; “ I shall be too busy 
to-morrow, and shall not see her again.” 

He took his candle, went slowly down stairs to the library, and, 
seating himself at the table in the cold room, began to write. What 
he wrote consisted of only a few lines. 


276 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


“ I am going to Europe, and this is our first and last greeting, after 
60 many years. If your emotion to-night was caused by the sight 
of myself, I deplore the fact from my heart. If I have anything to 
forgive, I forgive you from my heart of hearts. 

“But this is not what I meant to write. Your future will be 
happy. Your husband is changed by suflering and by love of your 
child and his— your little Fanny, who is restored to you. They 
must have told you that the child is your own. She is the darling 
of her father, and that father is the Count de Gontran now, as you 
are the Countess. He is coming to take you, and love and cherish 
you. 

“ Forget the past, and live for your husband and your child. 

“Justin Harley.” 

He sealed this, and then for the first time remembered that he 
knew no name to place upon it which would be intelligible to the 
family at Blandfield. He solved the difficulty by addressing it 
“To THE Lady who Fainted Last Night.” 

On the next morning, he dispatched it by his old body-servant to 
Blandfield. 




CHAPTER LXIX. 

RE-APPEARANCE OF THE BIRD OP ILL-OMEN. 

It was a headlong and excited rush. She came up the steps with 
an agility that no one would have expected from a lady of her 
years and figure. Her face glowed ; her artificial fiowers trembled 
with excitement. She precipitated herself into the arms of Miss 
Clementina, who awaited her at the door, and clasped that lady 
with ecstasy to her bosom. 

It is unnecessary to say that it was Miss Clara Fulkson. She wore 
her most “ stunning” toilet, and the time was early in the forenoon 
of the morning after the scenes just described. 

Miss Fulkson commenced with the unwonted phrase, 

“ Oh — h — h ! my dear Clementina !” 

She then fired oflF six kisses in succession on the cheek of the 
lady addressed. 

“ I am so glad to see you, dearest Clementina I Glad is not the 
word! Overjoyed! — quite overjoyed! And this dreadful, dreadful 
occurrence ! — I have heard all about it ! — that is to say, something 
about it. What has happened? I’m dying to hear about it, 
dearest.” 

In her agitation. Miss Fulkson drew her friend, rather than waited 
to be drawn, into the parlor. 

“Dreadful! is it not? lam quite overcome. Jenny, my maid, 
told me. Jim came over to our house late last night and told Jenny, 
who is his sweetheart. And it was the first I knew of that woman's 
being here ! Oh ! Clementina ! how could you be so unfriendly as 
not to — write to me at once, and tell me all !” 

Miss Clementina had waited, as usual. Her friend required a 
certain amount of indulgence, on the safety-valve principle. 

“ It certainly is a dreadful thing to have her here, dear Clara,” 
she now said. 

“ Oh, tell me all about it !” 

Miss Fulkson was silenced by her curiosity, and her friend pro- 
ceeded to relate how Fanny had been hurt, how the lady in black 
had come through the snow on the same night, trembling, ex- 
hausted, and crying “ Oh ! my child ! my child!”— and how, on the 
preceding evening, Mr. St. Leger had recognized her ; how Harley 
had come into the room where she was sitting, and how, unable to 
bear the meeting, she had fainted. 

21 


277 



278 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


Miss Fulkson listened with avidity, and only controlled her ex- 
citement, and desire to explode, by an effort. 

“ I fear there is no doubt at all of it now,” said Miss Clementina, 
shaking her head. 

“ Doubt ! Who could doubt ? Oh ! my dear Clementina.” 

“ They have betrayed themselves.” 

“ Yes, betrayed themselves ! I knew it from the first ! I knew it 
would all come out. Oh ! isn’t it dreadful — dreadful !” 

“ Especially as poor Evelyn has been mixed up with it.” 

“ Yes, Evelyn ! dear Evelyn ! How she must feel now ! To en- 
courage Mr. Harley so openly— everybody is speaking of it — and to 
find that he has a wife !” 

Miss Clementina groaned. 

“ What will they do ?” said Miss Fulkson, excitedly. 

Miss Clementina shook her head dismally. 

“ She cannot remain here, of course — I mean that woman,” said 
Miss Fulkson. 

Her friend made no reply. 

“ Clementina !” exclaimed Miss Fulkson, with reproachful stern- 
ness, “ do I understand that you think differently, and will permit 
this woman — this common actress — to remain a member of the Bland- 
field household !” 

“ My dear,” said Miss Clementina, with some remains of her good 
sense, “ it is not my house.” 

“ But you are its mistress in reality. You should take a decided 
stand, Clementina ! As your friend and the friend of the family, I 
say a decided stand must be taken.” 

Miss Clementina looked dubious and unhappy. 

“ Poor little Fanny would mourn over her absence.” 

“Fanny? Who is Fanny? A poor child really — a mere little 
chit, if I have heard rightly — the daughter of a backwoodsman. 
We must think of our own families — of Evelyn.” 

A sigh greeted the remonstrance. 

“And Mr. Harley — had he the audacity to speak to her?” 

“ He did not utter a word.” 

“ Then he did not — acknowledge her ?” 

“ He seemed too much overcome.” 

“ But she — she fainted. That is enough ! Oh ! Clementina ! Of 
all the dreadful things that I have ever heard — but he will not dare 
to come back ! He will not dare to hold any communication with 
her ! He will not ” 

The knocker rose and fell, indicating that some one was at the 
front door, and looking through the window, Miss Clementina recog- 
nized Harley’s servant from Huntsdon. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


279 


Here is his servant !” she exclaimed. 

“ Whose?” 

“Mr. Harley’s.” 

“ Oh ! Clementina ! Run — run — find what he came for !” 

Miss Clementina did not run, but she walked with unusual ra- 
pidity to the door, and opening it, confronted the servant, who 
bowed deferentially and gave her a note. 

“ From Mr. Harley?” 

“ Yes, mistress.” 

Miss Clementina looked at it. It was addressed 
“To the lady who fainted last night 

For a moment Miss Clementina gazed at the words with a sort of 
stupor. She was aroused by the voice of the old servant : 

“ Any answer, mistress ?” 

“ None — I suppose,” said the lady, unconsciously, whereupon the 
old servant made another bow, and, mounting his horse, rode 
away. 

When Miss Clementina, hastening into the drawing-room, exhi- 
bited the note to her friend, that friend was seized with such a fit 
of indignation and curiosity combined that for some moments she 
could only gasp. 

“ A letter !” she exclaimed, at length. “ A letter — from him — 

to her ! Oh ! Clementina ! isn’t it dreadful, dreadful, dreadful !” 

The “ dreadfuls ” were uttered in crescendo. The last rose to a 
species of scream. 

“ Very outrageous, indeed !” her friend said, speaking with de- 
cided irritation. 

“ Let me look at it I Such an address ! ‘ To the lady who fainted 
last night /’ The ‘ ladyP — Clementina ?” 

Her friend recognized in the utterances of her name that rising 
inflection which indicates, on the part of a person speaking, the 
desire to attract the especial attention of the person addressed with 
a view to a further communication. 

“ Clara?” 

She looked at the lady as she spoke. Miss Fulkson’s expression 
was significant. She had placed Harley’s letter on her lap, covering 
it with her hand. 

“ This is a question of duty, Clementina,” said Miss Fulkson, de- 
c^ively. 

“ Of duty?” 

“ Of duty in you, as the lady at the head of this house, and as 
Evelyn’s aunt.” 

“ What do you mean, Clara ?” 


280 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Oh! Clementina, can you doubt what I mean. Think of it I 
Here is a respectable and honorable family living in peace and hap- 
piness, with a young and innocent child — I mean our dear Evelyn — 
just growing up ; and into this family suddenly intrudes a woman — 
an unknown woman — who turns out to be the wife of a — gentleman 
— paying his addresses to our darling ” 

Miss Clementina listened in a sort of maze to this exordium. 

“ And here,” continued Miss Fulkson, in excited accents, “ here 

comes a letter — meant to be secret — from one to the other it is 

placed in your hands — now what is your duty, your positive duty, 
dearest Clementina ?” 

The lady’s meaning began to dawn. 

“Oh no! I could not do such a thing,” said Miss Clementina, 
taking the letter. 

Miss Fulkson endeavored to withhold it. 

“ I will look at it, then 1” she whispered. 

“No, no!” 

And Miss Clementina repossessed herself of Harley’s letter, which 
Miss Fulkson relinquished with a deep sigh. 

“ Well,” she said, “7 at least have done my duty ! I can do no 
more. Deliver that letter if you choose, Clementina. Trouble will 
come of it — mark my words.” 

“ I hope not ; but I must deliver it to the person for whom it is 
intended,” said Miss Clementina. 

She rose as she spoke, and added : 

“You must go up-stairs and take off your things, Clara — to my 
room; you will find a fire there. You will spend the day?” 

Hooks of steel would not have sufficed to drag Miss Clara Fulkson 
away from Blandfield that morning. 

“ No — thank you — I don’t think I will be able ” 

“ Do stay, Clara ! You are quite a comfort in the midst of all this 
mystery and excitement.” 

Miss Fulkson allowed herself to exhibit signs of relenting. 

“ I want to talk with you,— where we will not be interrupted.” 

“ Well, dear Clementina, I never can resist the temptation to stay 
when I am with you. I am so little given to visiting or gossiping, 
that I am from home very little, and never remain long at other 
houses. But here — with you, dear Clementina ” 

Miss Fulkson suffered herself to be persuaded ; sent her vehicle 
home, with orders to the driver to return for her in the evening, and 
proceeded up-stairs to take off her wrappings, and “spend the 
day ” — as she had fully intended to do on leaving home. 

Miss Clementina, begging her friend to excuse her, went to deliver 
Harley’s note to the person for whom it was intended. 



CHAPTER LXX. 

“oh! JUSTIN ! JUSTIN !” 

In a few moments, Miss Clementina re-appeared in the hall, 
coming out of Mrs. Bland’s chamber. She was moving her fan, and 
walked rapidly. A treat was before her. Up-stairs, taking off her 
“ things ” with the view of remaining all day, was the friend of her 
heart ; and with that friend seated opposite her, beside a cheerful 
fire, she promised herself a delicious morning, full of gossip, and 
chit-chat on every subject, but more particularly on the affairs of 
their neighbors. 

Let us not listen to thia instructive interchange of ideas. It would 
not do to embody, in extenso, in printed sentences and paragraphs 
those diffusive colloquies. The reader might laugh now and then, 
it is true, and have his interest and astonishment excited, perhaps, 
by the ingenious want of charity characterizing the several state- 
ments and conclusions ; but the full report would prove wearisome, 
the historian would yawn while narrating. Even the Miss Fulksons 
would make one gape when taken in too large doses. Let us remain 
down-stairs. 

Half-an-hour after Miss Clementina had rejoined her friend, the 
door of Mrs. Bland’s chamber again opened, and the Lady of the 
Snow came out with an uncertain and faltering step, and went into 
the drawing-room. 

She had come hither to read her letter from Harley in private, 
where no curious eyes could watch the expression of her counte- 
nance. She had taken it from Miss’Clementina’s hand with a quick 
throb of the heart, and a fading color. But fortunately none but Mrs. 
Bland and Fanny were in the chamber. With a single glance at it, 
she had thanked Miss Clementina, watched her depart, and after 
arranging Fanny’s pillow and bending over her with deep tenderness, 
had come to read the letter all to herself. 

She sat down and read the first lines — her eyes blinded by tears. 

“ Oh ! he is too generous and kind !” she exclaimed. “ I wronged 
him so ! And now he forgives me I” 

She continued to read : 


24 * 


281 



282 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Your husband is changed by suffering and by love of your child and 
his — your little Fanny, who is restored to you.” 

She bent down, weeping. 

“ Oh ! if he is changed ! if he is changed I— and loves me again, 
as he loves his child !” 

“ They must have told you that the child is your own.” 

“ Oh yes !— my heart, I think, revealed that to me before I heard 
it, as I leaned against the door of the little room in the hut that 
night, and heard, without intending to, what they were saying!” 

She read on, and at the sentence announcing that her husband 
was the Count de Gontran, started — but this start was followed by 
a smile of happiness. 

“ My dear, dear Fanny !” 

It was the first thought of the mother’s heart — her child would 
be henceforth a delicately -nurtured lady. Then she slowly finished 
the letter, folded it up with tears in her eyes, and, leaning her 
thin, pale cheek upon her white hand, gazed at the fire. 

She was sitting in a large arm-chair, with her back to the door. 
A slight wind had arisen, rustling the dry leaves on the trees, and 
the fire was crackling. These noises drowned the sound of footsteps 
on the passage — the footsteps of a person who, entering the front- 
door, blown open by the wind, was coming into the drawing-room 
unannounced. 

The thoughts of the Lady of the Snow passed from her child to 
her husband, and from her husband to Harley. This letter was his 
farewell. He was going, he said, to Europe. She would never see 
him again— never have an opportunity to say, “ Forgive me !” 

She bent down, sobbing. 

“Oh ! if I could see him face to face again, if for a moment only I 
If I could only tell him how noble he is, and how I have broken 
my heart thinking of my treatment of him !” 

A great sob ended the piteous cry. Then she murmured, her 
frame trembling, her cheeks flushing, 

“Oh! Justin! Justin!” 

As the low cry escaped from her lips, she heard a step behind her, 
and rose quickly. 

It was Harley, who had come to see Judge Bland to execute the 
deed transferring Huntsdon to his brother. 




CHAPTER LXXI. 

I 

THE LAST GREETING. 

They stood erect, confronting each other. 

Harley had recovered instantly from his astonishment at their 
unexpected meeting, and the expression of his face was exquisitely 
calm and sweet. He looked at the poor trembling figure before 
him — at the bent head, the wan cheeks, and the moist eyes — with 
an immense compassion and kindness. 

“ So we meet at last,” he said, coming and taking her hand, and 
speaking in his simple, cordial voice. “ I thought I would not see 
you again ; and, after all, perhaps it only distresses you.” 

“ Oh, no ! no ! I was just reading your letter.” 

She held it toward him. 

“ I was breaking my heart over it, and longing — longing for you 
to come !” 

He replied, in the voice of a man addressing a child : 

“ Well, you see I have come. Since you wished to see me, I am 
glad I am here ; but you must promise me one thing.” 

She had sunk back into the chair again, raising her handkerchief 
to her eyes. 

“ You must not go back to the past,” he said, always with the 
same kindness and gentleness. “ Let us forget it ; it was a sad time. 
Let us speak rather of Fanny, and- of your future, Augusta.” 

A slight tremor agitated the worn frame as she heard him utter 
the old name he had called her by so often in their youth. Those 
days now seemed to rise up before her, and her eyes filled with 
tears. 

“ I will not ; it is — it is I who should beg you not to speak of the 
past,” she faltered ; “ but I must — oh ! I must say— it will relieve me 
so — I must tell you ” 

Harley laid his hand upon her arm. 

“ Do not say it ; it is unnecessary, Augusta.” 

He took from his breast — where he always carried it — the paper 
which he had procured from the stroller on the night of his return 
through the snow storm from Blandfield — that passionate, self- 
reproachful revelation of a human heart, addressed to himself. 

283 



•284 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Look !” he said ; “ a strange chance placed me in possession of 
this paper — your journal. You left it with the players, and I ob- 
tained it from them, and have read it, since it is addressed to 
me.” 

She raised her head, and looked at the discolored paper with as- 
tonishment, sobbing. 

“You now understand why it is unnecessary that you should 
speak of the past, of what followed our last meeting, or of your feel- 
ings.” 

“ You have — read it?” she faltered, blushing and trembling. 

“ Through my tears more than once, Augusta, thanking Heaven 
that Providence — for there is no such thing as chance — threw in. 
my way what has brought back my faith in woman.” 

“ Your faith ! You can have no faith in me ! I deceived you— 
basely deceived you — when you were young and hopeful.” 

“ I have forgotten it,” said Harley, in his grave, kind voice. 

“ I darkened your life as far as I could darken it ! I was base, de- 
ceitful ! I outraged the noblest heart I have ever known ! I deser- 
ted you, as much as wife ever deserted husband — for you looked 
upon me as your wife in the sight of God !” 

“ You must not think thus ! Do not ” 

“ Qh, I must speak, or my heart will break ! I have had this 
weight upon my heart for years — in all those terrible wanderings I 
have thought of you !” 

He pressed the hand he held, and said : 

“ Think no longer of me as one whom you have wronged, but as . 
of one who loves you, and would sacrifice his own happiness to se- 
cure yours, Augusta. 

She sobbed and trembled. 

“ Oh, you fill me with shame ! How could I have treated you so I 
But I have repented ! Forgive me ! I was badly brought up ! I had 
no mother, Justin! I have suffered so! l am only twenty-eight, 
and look at my fiice ! I shall die soon ! I faint at the least emotion. 
But, thank God ! thank God ! I have seen you again, and can say 
to you, what I said in that paper — forgive me, J ustin !” 

Her head fell upon his hand holding her own, and she burst into 
passionate sobs. 

Harley looked at her in silence. An inexpressible sweetness and 
compassion filled his eyes, and it was plain that the noble heart of 
the man was stirred to its depths. He bent over the poor trem- 
bling head, laid his hand upon her hair, as a father lays his hand 
upon the head of his child, and said, in a low voice : 

“Augusta, remember what I wrote in my letter — if I have any- 
thing to forgive, I forgive you from my heart of hearts.” 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


285 


Oh, thank you ! — thank you !” came in faltering tones from his 
companion. 

“ God, the all-merciful, has bidden us forgive one another, as we 
hope to be forgiven. Let this be my last word — I have not only 
forgiven all the past — I have forgotten it.” 

Before he was aware of her intention, she caught his hand, and 
pressed it to her lips. He withdrew the hand quickly, but 

Miss Clementina had entered just in time to see Harley and his 
companion in that attitude, one of his hands upon her head, the 
other clasped in her own. 

“ Oh, excuse me I” cried Miss Clementina, with an excited laugh, 
trembling a little as she attempted the laugh. “ I only came in— a 
book — don’t let me disturb you, I beg.” 

Harley rose and bowed. 

“You do not disturb us, madam,” he said, calmly; “pray re- 
main.” 




CHAPTER LXXII. 

WHAT A LADY IS CAPABLE OF WHEN SHE IS AROUSED. 

The expression of Miss Clementina’s face was indescribable. 
Indignation, confusion, nervous excitement, the sense of what was 
due to visitors beneath the Blandfield roof— all these emotions were 
mixed and jumbled together inextricably in the countenance of the 
lady, who waved her fan with a sort of flutter, trembled, and laughed 
\h2ii falsetto laugh which does not laugh. 

She had come down-stairs on some errand to Mrs. Bland’s room, 
without a knowledge of Harley’s presence, and hearing voices in 
the drawing-room, had yielded to her curiosity, pushed open the 
door, and entered just at the moment when the pale lips of the 
Lady of the Snow had pressed Harley’s hand. 

Harley had said, in reply to her flrst words : 

“ You do not disturb us, madam— pray remain !” 

He spoke with perfect calmness, looking fixedly at the lady, who 
essayed her nervous and ironical laugh. 

“ Oh, I am sure I must, sir !” 

“ Not in the least, madam,” he said. “ It is I who probably incon- 
venience you. You are in search of a book? Allow me to assist 
you.” 

‘‘Don’t trouble yourself, sir, I beg! The book is of no conse- 
quence I” 

He inclined his head, still gazing quietly at her. It was a signifi- 
cant look. Something in it said, “ Are you really in search of a 
book, madam, or have you only come with the view of prying and 
listening?” The calm eyes aroused her irritation. Her face flushed 
more and more. 

“ I only regret having interrupted you, sir !” she said, spitefully : 
“ I am sure I am sorry. I was not aware that you and this — lady — 
were engaged in — that I was interrupting — so dramatic a scene /” 

Harley drew himself up with stately politeness. 

“ A scene, madam ?” he said. 

“ It really resembled a scene, sir. I am sorry if the word is dis- 
agreeable to you ” 

286 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


287 


“ And you have added — a dramatic scene, madam.” 

“ Yes, sir ; you must acknowledge that it is somewhat dramatic to 
be but I think I had better retire, sir.” 

In spite of which observation Miss Clementina, trembling, flush- 
ing, and becoming more and more irritated, made no movement 
whatever to carry out her threat. 

Harley had grown, if possible, more stately than before. When 
he spoke, his voice had the same tone of formal politeness. 

“ I must express my astonishment, madam,” he said, “ at finding 
myself and this lady the subject of this singular criticism. I am 
not in the habit — nor, I may add, is this lady — of acting a part in 
scenes — dramatic scenes.” 

The reply gave Miss Clementina an opportunity to throw all her 
indignation and wrath into one stinging sentence. She was so 
angry now that she lost all sense of convenance. 

“ I thought this — lady — had once been an actress, sir. If so, acting 
in scenes, and dramatic scenes, must be familiar to her !” 

Harley looked at Miss Clementina with sudden hauteur, and said, 

“ You will pardon me, madam, but this conversation is a strange 
one !” 

“ It is not stranger than certain things that are going on in this 
house, sir,” snapped Miss Clementina, completely losing her temper. 

“ Certain things, madam ?” 

“ Yes, sir!” 

“ Will you be good enough to specify these things, madam ?” 

“ I will, sir ! I mean to refer particularly to the presence of cer- 
tain persons here.” 

She glanced haughtily at the Lady of the Snow as she spoke. 

“Certain persons, madam?” 

“You know my meaning, sir! You have forced me to speak 
plainly !” 

“ I beg you will speak even more plainly still, madam, and put 
me in possession of your whole meaning.” 

“ I will do so, sir !” 

Miss Clementina was by this time nearly at a white heat ; and it 
is but doing her justice to say that she persuaded herself that she 
was only acting as it was her duty to act. Every feeling of pro- 
priety in her bosom had been outraged by the discovery of Harley 
and the unknown woman in so significant an attitude. She had no 
longer any doubt that they were husband and wife. And here 
before her was the person who had paid his court to Evelyn — 
making the girl the subject of satirical gossip ; he had come to the 
very home sheltering the girl to hold his secret interviews with 
this actrm— his perhaps cast-oflf wife ! 


288 


JVSTIN HARLEY. 


At that thought Miss Clementina raged internally, and her face 
indicated her feelings. 

“ I will speak more plainly still, sir, as you ask me to do so !” she 
said, with concentrated acidity. “ I mean that we are only simple 
country people at Blandfield — very plain and unsophisticated — and 
do not like mysteries, or mysterious people, of whom we know 
nothing.” 

“ Mysterious people, madam ?” 

“ Nor do we relish more forming intimacies with gentlemen whose 
past lives will not — bear examination !” 

The blow was rude, and was accompanied by a flash of tne 
speaker’s eye directed toward Harley which left no doubt what- 
ever of her meaning. He rose to his full height, and said, formally, 

“ You no doubt refer to myself, madam.” 

Miss Clementina was silent. 

“ As you have referred to this lady,” added Harley. 

Miss Clementina flirted her fan with a spiteful air, and said : 

“ I pass the limits of ceremony in speaking this plainly, perhaps, 
sir ; you have driven me to it !” 

Harley bowed, and said ; 

“ That is enough, madam. What you have done me the honor to 
say to me renders any further discussion impossible. When a 
gentleman is suspected of dishonorable conduct, of concealments, 
discreditable intrigue, he is naturally unwelcome ; and if he pos- 
sesses the least delicacy, he will cease to intrude where he is thus 
unwelcome. I will therefore rid you of my presence at once, after a 
very few words. You may not believe my word, madam, — I cannot 
help that ; but I shall make my statement, and then bid you good- 
morning.” 

Harley never lost his tone of formal politeness, and added : 

I came this morning with no object but to see Judge Bland on 
business. I am about to travel, and it was necessary to attend to 
this business. My visit was preceded by a letter, addressed by my- 
self to this lady.” 

“ I delivered it 1” snapped Miss Clementina. 

“ I thank you, madam ; it was not an appointment, as you may pro- 
bably suppose.” 

“ Oh, no 1” faltered the Lady of the Snow; “ it was to bid me good- 
bye!” 

“Thus my meeting with this lady,” Harley continued, “was 
purely an accident. You may possibly doubt my word — so be it, 
madam. I must submit to that doubt.” 

“ Doubt your word ? — she cannot ! — no one could 1” exclaimed the 
pale lady, with a sudden flush. 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


289 


“ I found this lady here,” Harley went on, “ and entered into con- 
versation with her; it appears that in doing so I have insulted your 
entire household, madam. Well, at least you have retorted. You 
have insulted her and me. As to these imputations upon her, and 
upon myself, — imputations involving concealment, dishonorable 
conduct — what shall I say, madam ? You are a lady — I a gentle- 
man — at least I have always regarded myself as such. It is better, 
therefore, perhaps, that I should say nothing.” 

The covert disdain of Harley’s tone so stung Miss Clementina, 
that her wrath reached its highest point. 

“ I have insulted no one ! I referred to what is said by every- 
body of yourself, sir ! I referred to this lady’s reported profession. 
She is an (xctress !” 

“ She is my friend, madam.” 

Miss Clementina could not resist the opening. 

“ She is said to be more, sir !” 

“ More, madam ?” 

“Your wife, sir!” 

The.scene had reached its climax, and Miss Clementina was about 
to leave the room abruptly, when a new personage appeared. Sud- 
denly a voice in the direction of the door cried : 

“ This is shameful ! — shameful !” 

Miss Clementina started, and turned quickly. 

“ I say it is shameful !” 

And Evelyn Bland almost rushed into the apartment as she spoke. 
The face and figure of the young girl were superb. Erect, defiant, 
her cheeks flaming with indignation, she brushed by her aunt, 
whose shrill voice she had heard while accidentally passing through 
the hall ; and, going to the side of the Lady of the Snow, turned 
round, facing Miss Clementina with the expression of an enraged 
princess. 

“An actress ! What if this lady is an actress ! married too — the wife 
of— Mr. Harley ? What if she is married to Mr. Harley ?” 

The eyes flashed, the cheeks were in a flame, the tall figure of 
the young lady shook with excitement ; but it was easy to see that 
there was no fear in her. 

“ You have no right to insult my father’s guests 1” she exclaimed. 
“You have no right to taunt this lady — for she is a lady! — with 
having been on the stage !” 

She turned quickly, and added, to the Lady of the Snow : 

“ You are welcome here, madam, and Mr. Harley also, whether 
my aunt tells you that you are welcome or not !” 

Miss Clementina seemed about to explode with pent-up wrath. 
But the explosion did not take place. She knew Evelyn perfectly, 

25 


\ 


290 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


and saw the readiness for combat in her eyes — the aroused spirit of 
the Blands on fire for instant battle. 

“ Very well, miss !— very well, indeed !” she said, with concen- 
trated anger and spitefulness. “ I have no more to say, miss, as I 
am ordered out of the room ! But I shall ask your father if 1 am to 
be treated with gross insults by you /” 

With which speech. Miss Clementina turned round and essayed 
to leave the room with queenly dignity. The attempt was too much 
for her, however. Her wrath overcame her, and, even forgetting to 
wave her fan, she flounced out of the apartment and disappeared 
in a rage. 

At her disappearance, the whole expression of Evelyn Bland’s 
face changed. The proud and generous girl had burned with anger 
at the harsh treatment of the shrinking Lady of the Snow ; but now 
that the enemy had retreated, she suddenly froze. Harley was 
there looking at her. 

“ Come, madam !” she said to her companion. “ You seem unwell 
after this outrageous scene. Let me go with you to your chamber.” 

“ Oh, yes ! you are so good and kind to me ! I will soon go away !” 

“You shall be welcome here as long as you will be my father’s 
guest !” 

She murmured some inarticulate words of thanks, and Evelyn 
drew her toward the door, passing before Harley, without looking 
at him. 

As they reached the door, the Lady of the Snow suddenly turned 
round, and held out her hand to Harley, her eyes wet with tears. 

“You are going!” she murmured. “We may never see each 
other again. I shall die soon, I think. God bless and keep you, 
Justin !” 

Harley took the hand, and, bending down, pressed it to his lips. 
A tremor passed through his frame. 

“ God bless you, Augusta !” 

Evelyn had not turned her head, but a glance sidewise told her 
all— the weeping Lady of the Snow, Harley bent over her hand — 
and a chill passed through the young girl’s frame; something 
seemed pressing on her heart and sufibcating her. 

Her companion was at her side again, and Evelyn was about to 
go with her to her chamber. A sort of mist passed before the girl’s 
eyes, her slender figure shook from head to foot, her step faltered, 
but the cold and proud light in her eyes had never softened. 

“ Miss Bland !” 

At that grave, vibrating voice from the room which she was leav- 
ing, Evelyn stopped unconsciously, and half turned. Harley was 
standing a few paces from her, looking at her. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


291 


I am going away,” he said, and shall not see you again for many 
years, if I ever see you !” 

She did not move. 

“ This meeting is an accident ; let me take advantage of the acci- 
dent, and offer you my hand before leaving you. It is the hand of 
a loyal gentleman and a friend.” 

She did not even look at him, and her face had never lost its cold 
and proud expression. 

But she slowly came back into the apartment. 



/ 



CHAPTER LXXIII. 

EVELYN BLAND. 

Evelyn sat down, resting her hands in her lap. She held her 
head erect, but her eyes were fixed upon the carpet, and the long 
lashes half concealed them. There was in her attitude, the carriage 
of her person, and the expression of her face, which was exceed- 
ingly pale, something cold, constrained — almost disdainful. The 
fierce struggle between love and pride had made its mark there ; 
any one who knew her character might have seen that the high 
spirit of the Blands wrestled in her with that other wellnigh absorb- 
ing sentiment, which, little by little, in spite of all her attempts 
to control it, had become a part of her being. 

Harley was not less agitated, and by emotions even more conflict- 
ing. He had persuaded himself that the young lady cared nothing 
for him — that his suit was hopeless — and had determined to go 
away with St. Leger without visiting Blandfield again. He had, 
however, been compelled to go thither in order to arrange the 
business of the deed with Judge Bland, and the painful interview 
with the Lady of the Snow had followed, moving him deeply. 
Then Miss Clementina had aroused in him a very different senti- 
ment — a sentiment of anger and disdain, which he had been scarcely 
able to conceal under the forms of politeness ; and lastly, Evelyn 
had appeared upon the scene, electrifying him with her generous 
espousal of the poor woman’s cause. 

It was as a sequence to all these trying emotions, that he now 
found himself face to face with the woman he loved so passion- 
ately — whom he had not expected to see again. A single glance at 
her, banished every feeling but compassion and tenderness. Her 
face was thin and pale, there were red rings around her eyes ; now 
and then her lips trembled a little. As Harley stood looking at her, 
every harsh emotion disappeared — an immense tenderness smote 
him, and his expression became gentle and full of a sad sweetness. 

“ So we have met again,” he said, in a low tone. “ I did not expect 
to see you again. I am sorry to see you looking so very pale. You 
are not well.” 

292 



JUSTIN HARLEY. 


293 


The earnest voice brought a slight color to the white cheeks. 

“ I am — well. I am not sick,” she said. 

“ You are very far from well. What has changed you so? But I 
am intruding, and I have no right to intrude — pardon me. And 
yet,” he went on, “ something is excusable in a friend speaking to a 
friend — some neglect of ceremony ; and we were friends once — were 
we not ? I have remained yours, at least — I do not know whether 
you have remained mine. I fear you are no longer such — something 
has come between us. But let us part at least without unkindness. 
I should be sorry to take away with me, as a last memory, this cold 
look — your face looking so pale — so very pale !” 

It was impossible not to be moved by the earnest tones of Har- 
ley’s voice ; and the young lady’s color grew deeper, and her lips 
moved slightly, but she did not speak. 

“ This is our last greeting,” Harley went on. Time and distance 
are hard masters — they separate people, as the grave does, or, what 
is worse, they make friends indifferent to each other. I am nothing 
to you, perhaps, but — again — let us part without unkindness. I can 
ask that, and offer you my hand — it was all I intended to do, in 
begging you to come back for a moment.” 

Harley looked at her, and saw her color come and go — her bosom 
labor with long breaths. She did not make any movement to offer 
her hand, in respose to his own half-extended toward her. But 
she was no longer the statue of ice which she had been, and instead 
of going, as he had intended, he was carried away by a sudden im- 
pulse to utter what was pressing like a weight upon his breast. 

“I am weak!” he said. “I thought I was proud and strong 
enough to act like a man. But I am a child— I have no pride for 
you /” 

He stopped for a moment, and went on more earnestly still : 

“ Shall I tell you what I mean? A last parting has some privi- 
leges. The friend you may never see again can drop ceremony a 
little. My life has been a sorrowful one, and I am going to let you 
form your own opinion of that. At twenty I was engaged to be 
married to a young girl of rare beauty. I thought she had given me 
her whole heart, as she told me so. The day for my marriage was 
fixed. I came full of joy and hope — and — do you know what 
awaited me ?” 

Harley’s voice shook a little. 

“ The woman who had become the dream of my life — whom I 
loved loyally, passionately— as a boy loves— this woman had fled, 
on that very day, with another person !” 

Evelyn raised her head and looked at him— her eyes full of won- 
der, her cheeks flushed. 


25 * 


294 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ And the man,” Harley continued, “ who did me this wrong was 
one with whom I had been brought up as a brother. In my absence 
he had supplanted me, winning the heart of my affianced. They 
went away — were married — they were unhappy — she left him — you 
have seen her in this room just now — a poor, unhappy person, who 
repented long ago of the wrong done me — whom I have forgiven 
from my heart !” 

A profound silence followed these words. The deep tones of the 
speaker showed how much he was moved. 

“ You know now,” he said, witnout waiting for any reply, “ why 
my life has been so melancholy, and why I went away to divert 
my mind from its brooding misery, by new scenes. My whole life 
was embittered, and I could not remain here. I w’as away d 
long time — came back in response to a summons from my uncle — 
and— shall I go on? it is useless, perhaps — worse than useless; 
and yet, why not speak and tell you all ? — it will make no differ- 
ence! True, it will cut me to the heart — but you shall know 
everything ! 

“ I came back a sad, dispirited man, growing old at thirty — and 
saw you ! I hated the very sight of women — to be frank with you — 
and that day, in the Blackwater, I found myself holding a woman 
in my arms — you — your head lying on my breast, your arms cling- 
ing around my neck. But for me you would have been drowned. 
We feel kindly toward persons when we have saved their lives. 
I went home thinking of you — that was all. But I saw you again : 
rode with you, walked with you, listened to your voice in singing ; 
and you changed my life ! Is this avowal uncalled-for — useless — 
absurd? Yes ! — I feel all that, and never intended to make it. But 
I have begun, and I will finish. With every meeting I came to love 
you more ; you grew to be the sole thought of my life — and — and — 
the result has been this interview — when you are listening to me 
with ill-concealed distaste — wishing me to leave you, no doubt ! — 
wondering how a man can be so weak, so deficient in decent pride — 
so childish, as to come whining about himself and his love, to one 
who cares nothing for him 1” 

Harley’s tone was bitter almost. He spoke vehemently, and his 
brows were knit. But a glance at Evelyn melted him suddenly. 
She was utterly pale now, and her head had sunk upon her bosom. 
Again pity and tenderness drove away every other feeling, and he 
said, in a voice of deep sadness : 

“ You know all now — it was better to tell you. At least I go away 
without laboring under these imputations. You will be able to 
respect me at least, and will, I hope, think of me — not unkindly. 
I shall not probably come back to Virginia. I am wellnigh ruined. 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


295 


as I have lived too carelessly, and my estate is so much encumbered 
that it will probably be sold ; but that gives me little concern, ex- 
cept on Sainty’s account. And now I have said everything — ftir 
more than I intended to say. I am going, and will not detain you 
any longer. Good-bye — Evelyn !” 

He held out his hand. She did not take it, or move. He looked 
at her for an instant, his heart throbbing; hesitated — and went 
toward the door. 

Suddenly he stopped and turned round. The young lady had 
burst all at once into passionate sobs, covering her face with her 
hands. 

“ Do not go I” she faltered. 

Harley came back quickly, his face flushing. 

“ Evelyn !” 

One of the hands covering her face was held out toward him. He 
took it, pressed it passionately to his lips, and said, 

“ Good-bye!” 

But the hand would not be released. It held his own. 

“Evelyn!” repeated Harley, with vehemence, his eyes full of 
astonishment and joy. 

She raised her head and looked at him. Her coldness had com- 
pletely disappeared. She was all sunshine and tenderness. 

“ Do not go !” she repeated, in a sort of whisper, the beautiful 

fece lighting up with an exquisite smile. “ Why should you be un- 
happy ?” ' 

An hour after this scene, or— if the reader prefers the phra^— 
this part of the scene, the sound of wheels was heard at the door ; 
Judge Bland emerged from his coach ; and a moment afterward the 
old counsellor came into the apartment. 

As he entered, he gravely saluted Harley. 

“ I have bad news for you, my dear sir,” he said. “ Your uncle 
Joshua is dead !” 

“ Dead !” exclaimed Harley. 

“ He was seized by a third attack of apoplexy this morning, and 
sent for you and your brother, and myself. I presume the message 
did not reach you. He lived but an hour after my arrival. He had 
sent for me on business connected with his will.” 

Harley received this intelligence with sincere grief. 

“ My poor uncle !” he said ; “ if I could only have seen him again !” 

“ He spoke of you, and informed me that every feeling of unkind- 
ness he had ever had for you had been completely obliterated by 
your last interview. His will sufficiently indicates that fact, and I 
may inform you of its purport without a breach of professional re- 


296 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


serve. He gives you the Glenvale estate, together with about ten 
thousand pounds in London investments; leaving the Elmwood 
property and his own estate of Oakhill to your brother. I drew up 
his will only a day or two since, and the execution of it seemed to 
afford him great relief. He was carrying out, he said, the wishes 
of his brother George.” 





CHAPTER LXXIV. 

ST. LEGER DEPARTS. 

There is something selfish in happiness. The old pass away, 
while the young are clasping hands ; and it is of the blooming face 
beside him, more than of the pale, peaked countenance yonder, that 
the lover thinks. 

But Harley rode back to Huntsdon saddened, in spite of his new 
happiness ; and his face was one of the most sorrowful that was 
seen at the funeral of the generous old planter who went to sleep 
in the remote graveyard beside his brother George. 

Harley returned to Huntsdon just in time to see St. Leger shut up 
his travelling valise, and prepare with a heavy heart to set out for 
Williamsburg. 

We need scarcely say that Harley had suddenly abandoned his 
design of going to Europe, and had informed his friend of the 
grounds of this change in his plans. He was engaged to be married 
to Evelyn Bland, and as that young lady had expressed no desire 
to make a foreign tour on the occasion of her marriage, he had 
abandoned his own resolution to travel, and would remain in Vir- 
ginia. 

St. Leger sighed. 

“ All that goes without saying if, to use the delightful lingo of our 
French friends, mon ami,” he said, smiling ruefully. “ You were 
glum— and were going. Your face has burst forth into sunshine— 
you stay ! Very well. Thank Heaven, you are happy once more, 
my dear old Harley ! You deserve it, if ever man did. But think 
of me” 

“ Of you !” 

“ I am going away— for ages perhaps ; and— and— you know what 
I mean to say.” 

“ Yes— that you are leaving Fanny. But remember that she is 

going too.” • 

“Are you certain ?— absolutely certain, Harley! I can hardly 

believe in such luck.” 

“ She is going in the spring. You saw her this morning. She 
must have told you.” 


297 



298 


JUSTIN HARLEY. 


“ Yes ; but the news is almost too delightful ! You see, I speak 
without blushing and stammering — you are in love yourself, you 
poor old fellow ! and will be charitable !” 

“I am always charitable for you, St. Leger — you are the best 
friend and companion I ever knew. Yes ; Fanny is going to the 
Chateau de Gontran, on the Loire, with her father and mother in 
the spring ; he has gone to make his arrangements, and will soon 
return. During the winter, Fanny and her mother will reside with 
Puccoon. They were urged to stay at Blandfield, but Fanny shook 
her head, exclaiming, like the little angel she is, ‘ Oh ! no ! no ! I 
could never stay away from father ! He has been my dear, dear 
father ! and I must see all I can of him !’ — meaning Puccoon, you 
know. So they are here but a little while — ^then they go to France, 
and need I tell you that a run across the channel is an easy matter ? 
You can hardly be anything but welcome at the Chdteau of the 

Comte de Gontran, where la belle chdtelaine to be, Fanny, is your 

friend !” 

St. Leger’s face glowed. 

“ You are right, old fellow !” 

. And an hour afterwards they set out together for Williamsburg ; 
thence they proceeded to Yorktown, and there, with a close pressure 
of the hand, parted. 

As long as the vessel was in sight, St. Leger made farewell signs 
to his friend. Then a fresh breeze sprung up ; the bark plunged her 
cutwater into the waves, and Harley had seen the last of his friend 
for years. 

He rode back slowly and sadly toward Huntsdon ; but with every 
mile passed over his face grew brighter. There was some one now 
to take the place of the absent in his heart. Through the clouds 
burst a brilliant flood of sunshine, and that opening through which 
the bright light fell was just above the country-house of Blandfield I 




CHAPTER LXXV. 

EPILOGUE. 

' Ip the bride is happy that the sun shines on, Harley and his 
brother Sainty had no fault to find with the day fixed on for their 
double-wedding. 

May had come into the world, with all its wealth of tender grass, 
and budding foliage, and singing birds and roses. The old domain 
of Blandfield smiled and held out arms of welcome. The airs were 
mild and sweet; the path down the hill led to a fairy land of 
flowers; the little stream ran laughing under the great weeping 
willows, and the distant river, dotted with white sails, broke into 
silver spangles in the wind. 

Blandfield was a scene of bustle and rejoicing. The grounds were 
full of coaches with their glossy four-in-hands and fat old negro 
coachmen. To every bough was tied a thoroughbred, champing his 
bit. The porch and drawing-room overflowed with youths and 
maidens, in lace and embroidery ; and portly old planters, and ele- 
gant old dames, had come to honor the occasion with their pre- 
sence. All the pleasant people of a pleasant old Virginia neighbor- 
hood had gathered together ; and prominent in the throng, behold 
the gorgeously-clad Miss Clara Fulkson, who bursts into smiles, is 
delighted with herself and all around her, and exclaims, with rap- 
ture and a little scream, to everybody : 

“0^., my dear! isn’t this perfectly delightful f Was there ever a 
happier occasion than this ? Did you ever see a finer-looking bride- 
groom than Mr. Justin Harley, who I always predicted would win 
our little rosebud ? I had positively set my heart upon the match !” 

Miss Fulkson is still gushing, screaming, accenting her words for- 
cibly, and — candor compels us to add — talking everybody nearly to 
death, when the gentleman whose good fortune she always pre- 
dicted is silently summoned from the room. All eyes are turned 
toward the door, a silence follows, and then, listen ! There is the 
rustle of brocade; like the wind in the corn, as the splendid* proces- 
sion of gay gallants and little maidens sweeps down the staircase, 
and enters the drawing-room, where the parson, in his black gown, 
with his prayer-book open, awaits them. 


299 



300 


JUSTIN HARLEY, 


The ceremony ends amid a burst of congratulations, mixed with 
kisses. Then the violins, grasped by excited “ negro minstrels,” 
strike up, and Blandfield becomes a scene of grandest revelry. 
Never were lovelier little maidens, brighter eyes, or rosier cheeks. 
And the brides were “ the admiration of all” — the one, Annie, with 
her plump little figure, her sparkling eyes, and raven curls ; and the 
other, Evelyn, with her tall figure, her brown hair, and her exquisite 
grace as she moved, half lost in the white cloud of her bridal veil. 

Harley’s lofty form rose above the throng, and his grave smile 
was full of happiness. As to Mr. Sainty Harley, that youth kissed 
all the bridesmaids, shook hands with everybody, and rushed 
through cotillons, minuets and reels with the wildest enthusiasm 
and abandon. 

For they had a “ regular old Virginia frolic ” after the wedding — 
not following the bad fashion of our modern time, when couples 
hurry through the ceremony, rush to the railway, and fiy oflT to hide 
themselves, as though ashamed of the enormity they have com- 
mitted. The violins filled Blandfield with their merry music— the 
profuse supper scarce interrupted for a moment the gay revel — and 
the birds waking at dawn in the old poplars and oaks, heard the 
violins still playing, and mingled their songs with the music and 
the laughter. 

Have you never, worthy reader, gone to visit some old country 
neighborhood, made friends with* everybody, returned, and lost 
sight of them, and years afterwards met some one who could tell 
you all about them ? 

If your heart is warm — and I would not wound you by doubting 
that — you ask a thousand questions. What has become of this one, 
and what is that one doing? What has changed? — what remains 
the same ? The old friends of your bright days keep their places in 
your heart ; and I like to think that perhaps these figures of my 
fancy have also their little corner there. 

A few words will tell you all about them. 

Harley went with his bride to settle down, a married man, at 
Huntsdon, which looked no longer sombre with Evelyn as its mis- 
tress. The London investments left him by Colonel Hartright paid 
off all his debts, and having come into possession of the great Glen- 
vale estate, he abandoned the scheme of draining the Black water 
Swamp, which remains to this day the haunt of tlie deer and the 
whip-poor-will. 

Sainty took possession of Oakhill, and became a great fox-hunter. 

At Blandfield no changes whatever occurred, and Miss Clemen- 
tina and Miss Clara Fulkson grew gradually old together, becoming 
every year fonder and fonder of gossip. 


JUSTIN HAELEY. 


301 


And our little friend Fanny — the reader, I think, will like to 
know something of her and Puccoon, and the Lady of the Snow, 
whom we left beside her bed at Blandfield. In the spring Fanny 
accompanied her father and mother to France, having spent the 
winter with Puccoon, now well and hearty again, in spite of his 
forebodings ; and seven years afterwards, nearly day for day, she 
returned to JIuntsdon, leaning on the arm of her husband— Mr. 
Henry St. Leger. 

St. Leger had purchased an estate near Huntsdon, and came to 
live and die in Virginia ; and the first thing that Fanny did was to 
go to Puccoon’s hut, where the trapper still lived with her dear old 
Otter, throw her arms around his neck, kiss him, and cry upon his 
breast, calling him her dear father, and take him away with her, 
whether he would or not, to live and die under her own roof, 
beside her. 


So everybody was happy, you see, kindly reader ; and romances 
should end thus, if only to reconcile us to human life, I think a 
little hard sometimes, but not so hard, perhaps, as it is represented 
to be. 

Let these personages of our drama— these puppets of our fancy — 
be happy, therefore, in their Puppet-land I 



THE END. 



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